


Murder at Mirror Manor

by em_gray



Series: AU fic challenge [7]
Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Blood and Injury, Bombs, Detectives, Gun Violence, Hostage Situations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, M/M, Magic, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period-Typical Sexism, Poisoning, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, highkey inspired by clue the boardgame, it's also set in the sort of 1920s but not the actual 1920s but that would imply I did research, it's just gonna be like 20k of percy being Done With Everyone's Bullshit, like a really really lowkey fantasy setting, oh btw monty and percy are like 25 in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gray/pseuds/em_gray
Summary: Detective Percy Newton has been invited to a party at Mirror Manor. Events take a turn for the worse when a crime is committed, and Percy is confronted with something - or someone - he thought he'd never have to see again.
Relationships: Felicity Montague & Percy Newton, Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Series: AU fic challenge [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640491
Comments: 35
Kudos: 31
Collections: TGGTVAV AU Challenge Fics





	1. The Crime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/gifts), [goldenthunderstorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenthunderstorms/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Written in Stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23332606) by [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope). 



> hi!!! here we are again!!! I am VERY excited about this au. I liked the concept of being 'stuck' in a single place from pinstripedJackalope's fic Written In Stone, so I locked a bunch of characters in a house, added some crime and angst, and here we are!
> 
> this whole thing got..... quite a lot bigger than I anticipated, both plot and word count wise, but I'm actually very proud of how it turned out! in its entirety it's gonna be 20-25k ish, which is 8-10 times the max word count limit for this challenge! i'm very good at this.
> 
> anyway! just imagine this whole thing in black and white, with some soft jazz playing in the background, and uhhh. yeah. hope you enjoy!

The manor looks even more impressive than when I saw it for the first time.

Perhaps it’s because the night and the storm in the air make its presence even more looming, sitting on a hill at the end of a long, lonely road. It does have something gloomy, I have to admit, silhouetted against a sky full of pale clouds with lit windows, giving it a skeletal appearance. It’s been the only thing in view for the last ten minutes of the drive, and I can’t take my eyes off it. The last and only time I visited was two years ago. It’d been in broad daylight, all the fine decorations and mirrors shimmering in the sun, but to me even then it had had a certain hollowness to it I never could explain. Like a body without a soul.

The cab drives through the open gate and stops between the fountain and the stairs leading up to the front door. The driver doesn’t shut down the motor, just lights a new cigarette as I open the door and maneuver out. My legs protest to such sudden motion after being folded together in the narrow space of the backseat for an hour. It’s drizzling, and I place my hat on my head. With my other hand, I search inside my pocket for my wallet.

“Thank you,” I say, as I hand over the money.

“Pleasure,” the driver replies, the insincerity dripping off his words. 

He blasts off, brakes screeching. I look after him for a moment, not really knowing why. I turn.

 _Mirror Manor._ The house blocks out most of my view of the sky. It’s ostentatious, with marble pillars and stairs and oaken doors and neatly kept plants in pots on each side of the staircase, everything perfectly symmetrical. It dates back from when the first Pixie Plague swept across the Continent, and many Europeans fled to Great Britain - and as the crisis dragged on, those who could afford it built new homes here; including the family that first owned this building. That information had been shared with (or perhaps bragged to) me by the current owner during my visit.

It was based on Versailles.

I realize I’ve been standing in the rain staring at a house for several minutes when a sudden gust of wind chills me to the bone. I shake my head, confused about my hesitation. It’s not that I particularly dread this night - it will be dull and overly fancy at best - but there’s something making me weary of this place.

But I am not prone to giving in to superstition.

I lift my chin and walk up the stairs, watched by the statues guarding the door.

I needn’t wait long after I knock. The door is opened almost right away by a young man. He’s a bit shorter than me, has dark hair and is wearing a uniform. He looks at me from behind thick spectacles.

“Oh! You must-must be Detective Newton,” he says. He’s got a stammer, and he can’t quite seem to commit to eye contact. “W-welcome! Come in, please, can I - should I? - may I take your coat and hat?”

The door behind me closes and the storm is cut off. I hadn’t even realized how cold I was until the sudden indoor warmth floods me. I shiver. I take off my coat and hat and hand them over to the man, who leads me ahead. “You may wait in the lounge, sir. You’re the s-second of our guests to arrive.”

“Second?” I ask. I wasn’t aware there were others invited, though I suppose it makes sense a soirée like this one wouldn’t be given in just my honor. I do wonder who the other guests are.

We arrive in a broad lounge, walls papered in red with golden decorations, filled with sofas and with a fire burning in the hearth. At set distances from each other, mirrors embellish the room, reflecting the bright light from the chandelier. The man stops beside me, clears his throat, and announces: “Detective Newton”, before gesturing I can enter. It’s ridiculously formal, and I can feel my face running hot. He turns to me. “The-the Duke will come greet you shortly. Dinner is served at six.”

He leaves, and I’m left in what I’m about to believe is an empty room - until someone speaks.

“ _Detective_ , hm? What crime are you here to solve tonight?”

I start, then try and fail to hide it. On a dark couch a lady sits, her suit matching the color of the fabric behind her. I hadn’t spotted her, and I might not have spotted her for another ten minutes if she hadn’t spoken. She watches me, motionless, and it takes me some time to remember she asked me a question.

“None, I sincerely hope,” I reply. Then, as the conversation immediately dies out, I add: “I helped the Duke with a burglary that took place here a few years ago.”

If she nods, the motion is too slight for me to notice. She simply adjusts her headscarf with a monotone “I see”, and with that our conversation is over entirely.

All right, then.

Lacking something else to do, I take a look around the room. I think I feel eyes burning in my back, but when I look over my shoulder, I only see my reflection staring back at me from a mirror across the room. The lady is just staring into the flames, occasionally sipping from her drink.

It’s ridiculous how paranoid this place is making me.

Ten minutes later I, too, am trying some of the wine, not because I’m particularly a fan, but just to have something to do with my hands. I’ve long since accepted the fact this night is going to be long and filled with forced conversations with people I can only barely stand, when I hear two pairs of footsteps in the hallway. I look up.

“Doctor-doctor Montague,” the man announces, and my jaw drops in pleasant surprise.

Felicity is wearing a red suit, and she’s got her hair in the same simple braid as always. She looks around the room defiantly, as if she’s ready for an attack. She sees the lady on the couch and her eyes widen, but she quickly looks away again. Then she sees me.

“Percy!” she says, relief in her voice. She joins me where I was loitering near the tray of wine glasses, and I offer her one with a small bow.

“I had no idea you were invited as well,” I say. “You look dashing, by the way.”

She smiles briefly. “Thank you. I was sort of hoping I wouldn’t be let in if I didn’t show up in a dress, but alas.” She looks at the other woman present again, who is ignoring us completely. “Though I wasn’t the only one with that idea, apparently.” A shrug. “How are you doing? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you in person. Oh, did you manage to solve that case with the stolen Lazarus Potions from a while back?”

I slump. “Not yet,” I still try, though the case is months old and I know damn well whoever did it has long since gotten away with it. “I’ve been… busy.” I sigh. “The Crown and Cleaver has been more active lately.”

It could be my imagination, but I think Felicity tenses a bit at that. “The Crown and Cleaver?” she repeats.

“Yes. Circus raids, museum burglaries, you name it. Truthfully, I…” I lower my voice, though I don’t know why - it’s not as if my colleagues are present. “I believe they have a point, with their whole protecting magical beings philosophy, but there’s more legal ways to go at it, you know?” I smile wearily. “Ways that don’t result in me having to do endless stake-outs, investigations that lead nowhere or, God forbid, _paperwork_.” I suppress a sigh. “Sorry, I’m rambling. How are things going for you? Has the London Medical Society mellowed on you, yet?”

She seems a little startled at the change of subject, but she quickly recovers. “They are still angry as ever.” There is pride in her voice. “Though I’ve come to enjoy it. If they suddenly started liking me, I’d get suspicious.”

“I’m happy for you,” I say, sincerely. “I read your book, by the way.”

She tilts her head in surprise. “Really?”

“I… didn’t understand much of it,” I admit painfully, “but that’s far more likely due to my lacking medical knowledge than to your writing and expertise.”

She gives me a nudge with her elbow. “Thanks,” she says softly. “I really appreciate it.” Then she starts speaking louder again, vulnerability vanishing from her voice. “What do you think this party is all about, anyway?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“My invitation said something about a thank you, though it was ages ago when I helped a friend of his, and seemed rather trivial at the time.”

“Yes, my invitation was similar.”

“Think he’s just got a list of people he owes something and he’s trying to do the obligatory thank you-dinner? Two birds - or three, rather - with one stone?”

I shrug. “We’ll see.”

We’re quiet for a while, though a far more agreeable brand of silence than the one I was sharing with the other lady. After a while, I can tell Felicity’s gathering courage for something.

“Have you…” she starts, “...heard anything from Henry, lately?”

And with that, the night has completely turned from agreeable to painful.

“I...” I start, but we’re interrupted by a new arrival. The pair seems distantly familiar to me, but Felicity’s eyes have widened and she is staring at the door in disgust.

“Doctor and Lady-Lady Platt.”

_Oh. Those two._

Of Alexander Platt I’ve heard a great many stories, detailed in letters Felicity has sent me over the years, but I’ve never seen him in person. I must say that on first sight, he does seem less of a match to Felicity’s original idolizing descriptions of greatness, than he matches the insults her letters had one day lapsed into. He’s wearing a greasy blonde wig and frowns at the room from behind thick eyebrows. He’s got a lime green coat on and his pallor is rather sickly.

His wife beside him contrasts him as day contrasts night. She’s beaming, a healthy color on her cheeks and a smile of pink lipstick. She’s wearing a broad pink dress with tiny gems decorating it, and her hair has been put into a complicated updo.

When she spots Felicity, her smile is wiped away like chalk from a school board.

The two women stare at each other from across the room. Johanna Hoffman seems merely surprised, but Felicity is downright scowling at her. She has never detailed to me what, exactly, transpired between them when they were children, but if she’s still carrying a grudge, it must’ve been bad.

Doctor and Mrs Platt seem to realize that socializing might be a challenge in this room, having the option of either addressing the stoic lady who’s staring them down, or addressing us. The other woman must be really giving them a look, for they decide to join us.

“Miss Montague,” Platt greets her.

“It’s Doctor, actually,” Felicity says.

I’m fairly certain I’m on her side in all of this, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy the tension that’s fallen over the room. I clear my throat. “Good evening. Ghastly weather outside, isn’t it?”

Platt, who’s been squinting disdainfully at Felicity, turns to look at me. He blinks. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Percy Newton, sir. Nice to meet you.” I offer him my hand.

He doesn’t take it.

Because tonight’s been going fantastically enough as it was.

His wife seems better-natured, for she smiles broadly at me and shakes my hand. She speaks sincerely. “A pleasure. I’d introduce us, but…” She gestures at the door, where they’d been announced, then puts a hand in front of mouth as if she’s embarrassed. “The formalities, you know.”

I nod mechanically.

I can tell Mrs Platt is trying to make eye contact with Felicity, but the latter is suddenly far more interested in studying the furniture. After an awkward moment, Johanna seems to take a decision. “Felicity,” she says, and the woman at my side is forced to turn back to the conversation.

“Yes?”

“I… heard you’ve become a doctor,” she starts off, then seems to run out of things to say.

“I have,” Felicity replies slowly.

She presses her lips together. “I’m glad.” There’s a certain insincerity that I can’t quite pinpoint in her voice when she says that.

I’ve no idea how, but Felicity seems to notice it as well. She looks Johanna in the eye. “Are you?”

I clench my teeth.

Johanna blinks. “...Why wouldn’t I be?”

Felicity lifts her chin. “I just thought you’d preferred me settled down, like a proper lady.”

“Felicity,” I hiss. I can tell she doesn’t mean a thing she’s saying. She’s just trying to lash out.

Johanna looks at her, mouth puckered. “ _I_ ’m not the one who’s been trying to change _you_ , Felicity.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Of course it means something. Go on. Say it.”

“I _do_ wonder,” Johanna feigns thought, tapping her bottom lip, “if you can’t stand me, why’d you show up to my wedding?”

Felicity shuts up. She’s scowling, though Johanna’s words must’ve hit a nerve.

“We both know what you did, Felicity,” Johanna says.

I look between them. Johanna isn’t lying, and Felicity’s silence seems confirmation. She still tries to defend herself: “I _helped_ you. If you can’t see that, that’s your problem. Though it’s clear you lost your good judgement years ago, if you’re marrying such a pr-”

She’s glaring at Platt, and I cut her off before she can finish her sentence: “We should be going,” I say loudly, though this lounge can’t be bigger than thirty feet square and therefore rather lacking of places to go. I grab Felicity’s arm and begin guiding her away. “Good evening, ma’am, sir.”

Felicity struggles free out of my grip once we’ve crossed the room. Johanna and Platt are still standing near the wine tray, quietly talking and emphatically glancing in our direction.

“What was that all about?” I whisper at her.

She doesn’t look me in the eye, just crosses her arms. “Nothing.”

Though that’s the biggest lie of the night so far.

After that, nothing else is said. When Felicity arrived, I’d felt reassured the night would not be entirely terrible. But right now discomfort hangs heavier in the air than ever before, like smoke from a candle fueled by grudges of events long-past. I glance at the clock. The half hour left before dinner might actually become one of the most dreary of my life.

Right when I’ve decided coming to this soirée might be the most unfortunate decision I’ve made in a long while, fate proves the truth of that in the most painful way imaginable when the sixth and final guest arrives.

“Lord Monta-Montague, Earl of Disley.”

I freeze. I’ve got my back to the door. Turning around may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Second-hardest, maybe, though the first place on that list is also linked to the person I thought I’d never see again. To the person who suddenly walked back into my life.

I can tell Felicity’s startled too. She turns dramatically, hand flying up to her mouth.

I hear footsteps approaching. _Why can’t I turn around?_ Slowly, they stop right behind me. A breath. “Felicity.” And I do _not_ tear up at that voice. “I didn’t know you’d-”

I’ve turned to face him, and the words die away.

Even after seven years, his beauty catches me off guard. Perfect features. Tidy blonde hair - _tidy_ , good Lord, it should be ruffled, what is _wrong_ with him? - and his eyes are the same blue as ever, though there’s a dullness in them. There’s something about him that unsettles me beyond words. I don’t know if it’s his posture - shoulders back, chin up, while he still manages to look frightened, or the way his light blue coat is a bit too big, making him look smaller than he already is, or the bags under his tired eyes. _Are they bags?_ I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

It’s him, but it’s also… not him. He’s wearing insincerity like a second coat - he’s huddled away in it. It’s an act he’s putting up. Someone he’s pretending to be. Or at least, I hope he’s still pretending.

I don’t know why I think that.

He’s still a full head shorter than me, and I don’t know why that stings so much.

Everything is the same, but everything is different.

He looks as shocked to see me as vice versa. He veritably takes a step back, looking me up and down, staring at me as though I’m a ghost. Though we might as well be ghosts to each other now.

“Percy,” he says breathlessly.

“Monty,” I say. He flinches, and I have no idea why.

We stare at each other for what feels like forever. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. I never thought this moment would ever occur. I don’t know if I hoped or feared it wouldn’t - a combination of both, likely. A wager, trying to guess if seeing him again would be more or less painful than missing him.

Right now, I really couldn’t tell.

“That’s been a while,” Felicity, thankfully, breaks the silence between us. Then, less thankfully, she adds harshly: “I veritably thought you’d be dead at this point.”

Monty looks at her in shock. So do I, but I’m still too dumbfounded to articulate words.

“...Look who’s talking,” Monty responds, annoyance finding its way into his voice. “I’m not the one who ran away from home with nothing but the clothes I was wearing and a ridiculous dream. So, tell me, what do you do for a living these days? Nannying? Factory work? No, I’ve got it. Telephone operating.”

“I’m a doctor,” she interrupts, chin high. “I’m a head of department at the London Hospital, and research the possible medicinal applications of dragon scales.”

That leaves him stumbling for words. I really don’t know how he didn’t know that, though. Felicity’s research and her appointment in the London Hospital have made her quite the celebrity.

I don’t know anything about what he’s been doing these past few years.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s great. That’s… I’m glad.”

Half-sincere.

Felicity’s squinting at him as if she’s trying to find the hidden insult behind his words. She doesn’t say anything else, and everyone else in the room is also silent and _definitely_ listening in on our conversation, and I want to climb out of the window and never come back.

“What about you?” Good Lord, he’s talking to me. This is too painful, and he feels it too, because he only briefly looks at me before avoiding eye contact entirely. He might as well be talking to the walls. “What are you up to these days?”

“I work at Scotland Yard,” I say.

He blinks at me.

“I’m a detective,” I clarify.

He’s struggling for words. “Oh! I… That’s… Um. I… didn’t know you had ambitions?”

I shrug. “I… had my reasons.”

He’s been frowning a little, but suddenly his eyes widen. “Oh! Is it because of the- because of how you-”

My heart vaults. I give him an emphatic look. He realizes the mistake he almost made and closes his mouth. “Right. Right. Of course.”

It’s just another painful reminder of how close we used to be. Even now, he’s still keeping one of my secrets.

“That’s… That’s good,” he says eventually, hands in his pockets. “You landed on your feet. I’m glad.”

 _No thanks to you_ , I think, and instantly hate myself for it. It’s not his fault. I asked too much of him.

We’re hurt, the pair of us, and out of the two of us, he isn’t to blame.

The lady that was already here when I arrived clears her throat.

This night is going to be the worst of my life.

Dinner is consumed unspoken, the clinking of cutlery against plates and rings against glasses being the only sound. Everyone’s eyes are on their food, and every now and then someone briefly glances around. The man who opened the door for us, as well as another lady, with dark hair and an olive skin, pour us wine, bring new trays and remove empty ones.

It lasts an eternity.

The host still hasn’t shown up.

After, we scatter. I’m looking through the house for a telephone to call a cab. I’m leaving, formalities be damned.

I find one in what appears to be a billiard room. I’m searching my pockets for the card I used to write down the phone number when the door opens behind me. I turn, caught like a thief in the act.

It’s Monty.

I can’t decide if I’m relieved or not.

“...Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him. He nods at the billiard table. “Here to play a game, are you?”

“Heavens, no,” I say. “Billiards is the worst.”

Monty’s shoulders slump, stepping out of the role. “ _God_ , I know, right?” He laughs a little. “I’m _so bleeding tired_ of playing it at parties. At this point I’m sure they’re inviting me just so they don’t have to lose.”

The corners of my mouth tug up. “You were even worse than I was, and that’s saying something.”

He puffs up his chest defensively, though he’s joking. “Oh, yeah? I bet I could beat you right now.”

“Only because out of the two of us, I’m the only one who’s had the common sense not to have played it in years.”

“ _God_ , I wish I could say the same.”

“Jealous of my life choices, are you?”

We’ve been joking, but that sentence ends it all. I regret it the instant it leaves my mouth. For a second, I’d forgotten about the seven years behind us. For a second, it felt like having my best friend back.

But I don’t. It was a charade.

I don’t take back my words.

His smile fades, too, and he seems to shrink further. He’s looking for words. I know he’s not going to find any.

“You never wrote.” The words fall out of me.

He looks up. “You didn’t, either.”

I say nothing.

Silence weaves out between us. It’s being spun all night long, and now it’s thick as cloth, dragging us down and making our hearts heavy with a million things unsaid.

A million things I need to say but can’t.

After an eternity, Monty takes a sharp breath and rights himself. “Percy, I…”

He’s cut off by a bloodcurdling scream.

We look at each other, eyes wide. I move first, sprinting for the door and into the hallway. I run toward the general direction the cry came from, and almost run into Felicity.

“What was that?” she says breathlessly.

Another scream. It’s coming from upstairs.

I run up the stairs, Felicity behind me. On the first floor, I pass Doctor and Mrs Platt by, who both look bewildered. A third scream, and I spot the open door with light pouring out of it. I run into what appears to be the library. A large statue in the middle catches my eye. At the bottom, a figure stands - it’s the dark-haired woman, one of the servants - and she’s looking down.

Someone is lying on the floor.

I reach the woman. She’s frozen in fear, gasping for breath, and I put my hand on her shoulder as I look down.

It’s the Duke. He’s motionless on the floor, skin pale, eyes wide and foam at his mouth.

“Out of my way,” I hear from behind me, and Felicity pushes me aside. She kneels down next to him and reaches for his wrist, but she’s shoved aside when Platt joins us.

“What are you doing?” Felicity snaps at him.

“He needs a doctor,” Platt says.

“I _am_ a doctor,” she replies, but she’s ignored as Platt checks the Duke’s pulse. She presses her lips together, glaring, but leaves it at that and stands up. Meanwhile, Monty, Johanna, the other servant, and the lady with the headscarf have joined us. Collectively, we hold our breath.

“He’s dead,” Platt says, a little in disbelief. “Has been for a while. Poisoned, likely.”

Johanna gasps and the other servant almost drops his spectacles. The surprise is tangible in the air, as is the way it suddenly lapses into fear. Felicity must’ve grabbed my arm at one point, because she’s squeezing it rather painfully. Monty is looking pale beside me. Johanna has started sobbing.

“Wh-what’s that?” the dark-haired man asks. He’s pointing near the body, and we all follow the line with our eyes. As he’s still sitting down, Platt picks it up - it turns out to be a sealed envelope. He turns it around in his hands, slowly, eyes getting stuck on some writing on the back. For a full minute, he just stares at it. Then he turns to me, offering the object, distrust in his eyes.

“I believe this is for you, Mr Newton.”

I reason he means because it is evidence and I’m the one most likely to solve the crime, so I am quite surprised to see my own name written on the back. All eyes are on me. I carefully break the seal, open the envelope and read the letter inside.

_I have hidden a time bomb in this building. It is set to go off in ten hours. I am the only one who can disable it. Solve the disappearance of the Panacea Heart, find the thief, within that time limit, or everyone will die. If anyone attempts to escape or call the police, I will set off the bomb immediately._

_I am watching you._

Reality slows to a stop. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. I’m staring at the handwritten words, though I can read less and less of them. The direness of the situation settles in slowly.

_I need to take control over the situation._

“All right,” I say, my voice sounding distant. “No one leaves this building until I’ve taken everyone’s statements. Wait in the lounge.”

People begin moving again around me, uneasily.

“Why should we do what you say?” Platt asks, standing up.

“What was in that letter?” the woman with the headscarf adds.

“I’m a detective,” I say. I pull out my badge and show it. “I’ll be examining the scene, calling for back-up, and then calling you in one by one for questioning. In the meanwhile, keep an eye on each other.”

Ending on such a concerning statement isn’t ideal, but I hope it might distract them from the question I’ve left unanswered. Everyone exchanges uncomfortable glances, and I hope I’ve fooled them, until my gaze meets the dark eyes of the lady who posed the question. She’s staring at me intently, squinting with estimation, but says nothing of it. I look away quickly.

Finally, people slowly start making their ways to the door, still dazed and whispering to each other. Felicity follows them, but I call after her. She turns.

“Could you…” I gesture wearily, “take another look at the body? Bruises, wounds, anything that stands out. I’m… a little short on an autopsist at the moment. I mean- don’t to an actual autopsy. But…”

She nods firmly, then retraces her steps. I see Platt leaving, a very distraught Johanna at his arm, and he gives me one final glance before disappearing out of sight.

As soon as they’re gone, I let my shoulders slump.

“Sooo,” Felicity says, kneeling down near the body, “what was in that letter?”

“Nothing good,” I say tiredly. I very briefly summarize it.

Felicity doesn’t even look up. “That’s why you told everyone to keep an eye on each other.”

“Why’s that?”

I look up. Halfway the door, a little bit in the shadows, stands Monty. I thought he’d left with everyone else. I bite my lip.

“The murderer said he’d be watching us,” Felicity says, matter-of-factly. “How else would he be doing that?”

Monty looks between us.

“Which means,” I elaborate, cursing this night in its entirety, “that it’s highly likely that the murderer… is one of us.”


	2. The Suspects

_17:00: I arrive at the Manor. Lady with headscarf, both servants and Bourbon are (likely) already present._

_17:10: Felicity arrives._

_17:25: Mrs and Dr Platt arrive._

_17:40: Monty arrives._

_18:00-19:15: Dinner is served. Everyone except Bourbon is present in the dining room._

_19:15: I look for a telephone._

_19:20: Monty finds me._

_19:30: The body is discovered._

I look at the page in my notebook, mindlessly fiddling with the pen. I’m already weary to the bone, and this night has only just gotten started.

_7:30: A bomb goes off, killing us all._

I instantly scratch that out.

It could be a bluff. There’s no actual evidence of the bomb, and since the house is huge, we could search it all night and still not find anything. But I can’t take the risk. Not to mention that we’d soon spotted someone closed and locked the gate while we were distracted. The walls surrounding this domain are over ten feet high and uninterrupted.

We’re stuck.

There’s a knock on the door of the study I’m using as improvised interrogation room. This place is just as covered in mirrors as every other room in this damned place. It’s freaky - I keep having the feeling I’m being watched, but when I turn, it’s only my reflection.

I’m a little on edge tonight.

At the door, Monty pokes his head inside. “I brought Robles.”

That’s another thing. Not only do I need to solve a murder and apparently some kind of theft within ten hours with everyone’s lives at stake, I’m also stuck in the same house as Monty while I’m at it. I wonder what I possibly could’ve done to piss off Fortune that badly.

I sit up, sighing. “Could you come in for a moment first?”

He hesitates, but then closes the door behind him and takes place in the chair across me. He’s got his hands folded in his lap and he looks small. I don’t know how to describe it. Most suspects are nervous when we bring them in for questioning, but not like this.

_I called him a suspect._

“I just want to get this over with quickly.” _So I don’t have to see you anymore for hopefully at least a few hours._ “So I can rule you out.”

He quirks an eyebrow at me. “So convinced I didn’t do it, are you?”

“Did you?”

The lightness in his expression vanishes. His eyes drop. “No, of course not.”

He’s speaking the truth, and it shouldn’t be as big of a relief as it is.

I pick up my pen and flatten the page in my notebook. “All right. When you arrived, did you go anywhere except for straight to the lounge? Did Robles leave your side?”

He shakes his head.

“Then you stuck with us ‘til the end of dinner. Where’d you go then?”

He shrugs, then frowns in thought. “Just… wandered around a bit. Honestly, I was looking for a kitchen or a servant I could ask for a drink, but didn’t find anything, until I ran into you.”

I write it all down. “You’re probably going to be the person with the least possible occasion to commit the crime. Unless you found a way to poison Bourbon and leave that letter in five minutes.”

A corner of his mouth tugs up. “Am I free to go?”

“...We’re stuck in this place.”

“I know, I… I was just kidding.”

I don’t say anything.

“It suits you, you know.”

I look up. “What?”

“You know…” He gestures at nothing in particular. “Look at you. Questioning suspects. You’re, like, a real detective.”

“I am a real detective,” I say coolly.

He looks alarmed. “No, I didn’t mean, I… of course you are. I just…” He sighs. “Forget it.”

We fall into one of the most uncomfortable silences I’ve shared in my life. Not coincidentally, most other silences on those list had a habit of involving him.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a Panacea Heart, would you?”

He seems a little surprised that I’ve spoken. “No,” he says. “What is it, anyway?”

I sigh. “Not a clue.”

There’s a moment of silence while I write down my last notes. Monty glances over his shoulder. “So is it because of the lie detection thing?”

I look up, then sigh. “A little. Partially. One of the reasons.”

People with… _unusual_ abilities aren’t _that_ rare. They’re usually barely worth mentioning, anyway. Being able to make small objects disappear. Hair that grows at one’s will. The ability to let one’s eyes change color.

Being able to tell when people are lying.

It’s not that noteworthy, though most tend to hide such a secret for a variety of reasons. Not to mention that barely a century ago superstition surrounding it was still very common, and even today especially higher societies still frown upon any forms of magic. Quite pointlessly, I find. It’s just a part of our world. It seeps in from the corners, like light falling from windows during winter nights, like waves rolling onto a shore, like dreams that when you wake always end up just beyond your grasp. No more extraordinary than the blood in our veins or the clouds in the sky or the way one can fall in love with someone they know they can never be with.

Creatures and objects and centuries-old curses and charms and potions and spells and occasionally, a human being.

Really, not a big deal.

It took me ages to figure out I could tell people were lying to me. I’d always been able to, I’d always _known_ , in a way, but it didn’t occur to me it might be something not perfectly ordinary until I was almost sixteen. It’s a certain feeling I get, every time someone says something they doubt or know to be untrue. It’s not exactly… very _precise_. If someone would say a sentence that included a truth and a lie, it’d be hard to distinguish which is which.

It only works in spoken language, too.

He grins. “That has to make you the most efficient detective Scotland Yard has ever seen. Aren’t they throwing cases at you by now?”

I shrug vaguely. “They… don’t know.”

“What do you mean, they don’t know?”

“I haven’t told them.”

“Why not? It’s easy to prove.”

“Yes. It’s also very difficult to use as hard evidence during trials.”

He frowns, lips parted as if he’s halfway through a rebuttal, but doesn’t argue. “I guess.” He shrugs, leaning back, seemingly more relaxed.

“My, um… My boss knows, though.”

He looks up.

My shoulders slump. “Do you… remember Detective Boswell?”

“The detective who worked on your father’s case.”

“After I… left, he took me in. I suppose everything just… added up.” I shrug. “I’d have no idea what else I could be doing. Plus, it was easier to get hired knowing someone on the inside.”

Monty nods, eyes distant. He takes a sharp breath, changes his mind, then decides to say it anyway: “Did they…” he coughs awkwardly, “...find anything new on your father’s case?”

“No.”

“Oh. That’s… too bad.”

I lean forward on my elbows, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s all right. As far as cold cases go, this one is…” I can’t find an adequate metaphor. I gesture vaguely. “It has been over twenty years. And… it was probably just an accident. As everyone has been saying.”

The insincerity tastes bad in my mouth. I don’t believe my own words.

We’re silent again. The rain taps against the window, hit after gentle hit as if it’s playing a musical instrument. I clear my throat. “Okay, you can go.”

He stays put. I can tell he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, just struggles with it for a few minutes while I pretend very hard to study my notes. At long, long last he stands up and heads for the door. I hear the lock latch and think he’s left, but then he speaks again.

“I missed you, you know.”

It takes everything I have in me not to flinch. _God_. Out of all the things he could have possibly said to me, that has to be the most painful option, and not just because it is unbearably true. My eyes are focused intently on my hands, though I’ve stopped writing.

I missed him too. Good Lord, that’s an understatement. I’ve thought about him every day for the past seven years. Most notably at night, when everything went quiet and the distractions of the day and the job had all gone. It’s almost become a ritual - go to bed, stare at the ceiling, wonder what Monty’s doing right now. Is he doing all right? Is he running the estate now? Does his father still-?

_He didn’t want to come with me._

_I left him behind._

Thinking about him always comes with pain. The first few months were the worst: not just being without him for the first time in my life, but the memories of our goodbye have been burned into my soul.

We hadn’t shouted.

We hadn’t fought.

We hadn’t touched each other.

We hadn’t even looked the other in the eye.

It was a formal thing, something one might expect between perfect strangers.

I realize that in this moment, seven years later, now belonging to completely different worlds and barely able to manage a superficial conversation, we’ve finally become those perfect strangers to each other.

I can’t tell him how much it hurts me. I can’t tell him how much I think about him. I can’t tell him the guilt has been eating me up every day and every night.

So I just nod.

And he leaves.

It takes me some time to get my head on straight again while the servant is sitting across me, fiddling with his hands, clothes, glasses - with everything, really - and looking as though he’s waiting in line to be executed.

I should reassure him.

“What’s your name?”

He veritably starts when I speak. He looks up, hands wrangling together with the fabric of his shirt between them. “Dante Robles, sir.”

“How long have you been working for the Duke?”

“Um, not-not very long yet. I mean, yes. I mean - some time. Um. My sister and I started working for him together.”

That’s… a mixture. There was some truth in there, though his ramblings are likely nerves.

“Could you be a bit more exact?” I ask. “Are we talking about a few weeks, a few months, a few years?”

“A-a few months?”

He sounds like he barely believes it himself.

“...Okay.” His nerves are making it hard for me to separate lie from truth, though it’s obvious he’s hiding something. “Could you briefly tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve done from… noon until seven thirty?”

Stuttering all the way, he explains that he and his sister have been preoccupied with the preparations for the evening most of the day. He’s been either with his sister or guiding a guest inside, but there’ve been plenty of five- or ten minute windows where he could’ve sneaked away, poisoned the Duke and left the letter. For all I know, someone might’ve poisoned the bottle of wine he was drinking from a month ago.

But they left the letter. _That_ they must’ve done between Felicity’s estimated time of death - between seven and seven twenty - and our discovery of the body. Finding out who poisoned him is going to be difficult. But that letter… that might be a lead.

“And after dinner?” I ask, when he’s done detailing everything before.

“My-my sister and I were cleaning up,” he says, pressing his spectacles to his face. “Until Helena went-went to look what was taking the Duke so long and she-she found him.”

I suppose that gives him an alibi.

“All right. Thank you.”

He’s already standing up, but I stop him. “One moment. Do you know anything about a…” I glance at the letter, as if I haven’t memorized it by now, “...Panacea Heart?”

He almost jumps, letting out a terrified noise. “How-how do you-? How did you-?”

“Please answer the question.”

He bites his lip, then sits back down. “Yes,” he says.

I pick up my pen again, encouraging him to continue.

He scratches in his hair, shaking his head. “It’s a long story.”

“Tell me anyway.” I’m surprised to be finding a lead on this mysterious Heart so soon. I had veritably decided to focus on the homicide, to find the murderer and just _make_ them do something about the bomb, but if I could solve this crime too… It couldn’t hurt.

He takes a deep breath. “My father is… _was_ an alchemist. He, my-my mother and their partner, one day they found… a tomb. They’d-they’d been looking for it for a while. There were myths of-of a Heart, hidden there, that was rumored to be able to cure someone of… death _itself_.”

 _He definitely believes it to be true._ I notice I’m tensing up, leaning in closer. “Did they find it?”

“Yes.” He’s nodding. “Though it-it went wrong. My- It killed my mother.”

My mouth falls open a little. “How?”

“I don’t know.” He seems more nervous than ever. “I wasn’t-wasn’t very old at the time. I just know that they were… experimenting on it, and some-something must’ve gone wrong, because…” He swallows hard. “My father went to prison for her murder.”

“What happened to the Heart?”

“I-I don’t know. It went missing the day my father was arrested.”

I stare ahead for a moment, unsure of how to deal with this information. I’ve dealt with cases involving magical objects in the past, but something about all of this is unsettling.

_Why is our murderer so interested in this object?_

“Thank you, that will be all. Can you send your sister over?”

Helena Robles is a few years older than I am, and the intensity she’s staring me down with makes it hard to make eye contact. She’s got her arms crossed and is leaning back in the chair, watching me as I write down her name and whereabouts of the night. Her story matches Dante’s perfectly, and she’s far more sure of herself. While interrogations tend to have the benefit that we can observe the suspect, trying to find hints of their true motives, right now it’s _her_ studying _me_ , as if she can’t quite figure out what I’m doing here, but is very certain she doesn’t like it.

I decide to go for the direct approach. I put down my pen, fold my arms and look her in the eye. “Did you kill your employer?”

She blinks, and for a second I swear a smile appears on her face, fleeting like a shadow in the night. She sits further upright. “I did not.”

That is certainly true.

Though I might’ve phrased things a bit poorly there.

“Did you leave the envelope that was found at the body?”

“No.”

All right, then. I lean back. “Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted the Duke dead?”

“No.”

“No one at all?”

“We haven’t been working here for very long.”

“I see.”

She’s hiding something, just like her brother was. Though I must admit the feeling of secrets hangs heavily over almost everyone present tonight. It’s getting on my nerves.

“Could you tell me something more about the Panacea Heart?”

“Nothing I’m sure Dante hasn’t told you already.”

She’s sharp-witted, I’ll give her that.

“So you… also have no idea where it could be right now?”

“Positively none.”

“Or why… the murderer would be so interested in it?”

“Because of its cure-all properties, most likely.”

“Cure-all?”

She tilts her head. “Yes. Panacea.”

I blink. “...Right. So it has these…?”

“It’s claimed to be a cure for everything, included death.” There’s a certain contempt in her voice. “I can imagine many reasons why someone would want to get their hands on it.”

_Many reasons. Nothing solid. Nothing pointing directly at someone._

“But did anyone know about this? When the Heart was first stolen?”

She presses her lips together. “Not back then. These days the rumor has gotten out, but back then it was just… our parents. Dante and I.”

 _Nothing_.

“...and their research partner.”

My eyes widen. I flip back a few pages in my notebook. _Of course._ How did I miss that? I’m awfully distracted tonight.

I try to blame it on the hour. _Not_ on being stuck in the same house as the love of my life who doesn’t feel the same way.

“What was their name, again?”

She lifts her hand to her mouth, head tilted, thinking. “It was… Glass, I believe. Sybille Glass.”

“Full name, please.”

“Alexander Platt.”

“Did you kill the Duke of Bourbon?”

“So very direct.”

“Answer the question, please.”

“Why should I?”

I suppress a sigh. “I’m trying to conduct a murder investigation.”

“Isn’t that something the police should do?”

“I am the police. ... _With_ the police.”

“I’ll be answering no questions until the officials are here.”

“I am-” I clench my teeth, closing my eyes for a second to collect myself. “Fine. I’m sure you’ve got nothing to say about your whereabouts after dinner, either?”

“I was with my wife.”

 _Oh, he_ does _answer questions._ “She’ll be able to verify that, I’m sure?”

“No doubt.”

“Do you know anything about a Panacea Heart?”

I might’ve imagined it, but he looks caught off guard at that. He quickly regains composure, though. “Not a thing.” But _that_ is a lie. “What is the relevance?”

“That information is classified.”

“By whom? You?”

I press my lips together, but don’t fall for the bait. “What about the Robleses?”

“It rings a bell.”

“Sybille Glass?”

He pauses. “Perhaps.”

“Who was she?”

A dismissive gesture. “She accompanied me on a few scientific expeditions.”

“Was she a scientist?”

Platt gives me a mocking grin. “She was a woman.”

“Those two are not mutually exclusive.”

He gives me a last estimating look, before turning away, as if the mirrored walls are more interesting than this conversation. “She documented some of our discoveries in drawing. She was an artist.”

“When is the last time you saw her?”

He frowns. “Ages ago. I’d say it’s been… four years since her death?”

I stop writing abruptly. “...Death?”

He takes some time to reply, studying me disdainfully. “You really have no idea what all of this is about, do you?”

“Enlighten me,” I say dryly.

He shrugs, settling more comfortably into the chair, and I get the annoying feeling he’s messing with me. “Four years ago, she died on an expedition. A storm. The ship sank. Few made it out.”

I clench my teeth. Not a lie in those words.

Okay. Recapitulate. The Robleses and Glass found a Heart, it killed Mrs Robles, and Glass likely took it ( _though I have no evidence of that_ , an annoying voice in my head reminds me). But Glass died four years ago.

So far my lead.

“And I’m sure she never mentioned the Heart, either?”

Platt’s about to say something, but the door is thrown open. It’s Dante Robles, and he’s looked more panicked than usual. “S-sir,” he says, then flinches back when he sees Platt, as if he’s feeling self-conscious about having interrupted. “I’m sorry to- but, downstairs, in the lounge, they…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, just looks toward the way he came from. Now we’re all silent, I can hear shouting. Women’s voices.

“I thought you might want to come,” Dante concludes awkwardly. “They-they sound as though they’re going to murder each other.”

Due to the sheer volume of it, I can start distinguishing words of the argument while I’m still descending the stairs.

“... _broke_ into my house-”

“I didn’t _break in_ , I was invited.”

“-you stole from me, and I might still have let that pass, might still have given you a chance to explain yourself-”

“Oh, please, spare me your _kindness_.”

“-but that you would _lie to me like that_ …!”

One of the voices is Felicity, I realize. The other, high-pitched and angry but distressed, belongs to Johanna, I conclude, when I storm into the room.

The two women are opposing each other, looking beyond furious. Everyone else has taken a step closer to the walls, and are watching the scene as spectators surrounding a boxing ring. Monty’s standing near his sister, arms raised as if he might try to calm her down, but looking far too terrified to actually do it.

And for _God’s sake_ , why was my first thought to search for him?

“I didn’t lie to you,” Felicity spats, though that’s definitely a lie, “and even if I did, why would it matter? We’re not friends. We haven’t been since the day you decided you were ashamed of me.”

“I was _never_ ashamed of you!” Johanna’s voice, which is normally already rather high, is now nearing inaudible levels of shrillness. “ _You_ just decided that when I started to like make-up and dresses and frills that _I_ was suddenly beneath you. _You’re_ the one that wrecked our friendship, not me.”

“All right, that’s enough.” I step in between them, raising my hands as if they might actually attack each other - which they might. Felicity is pale, face contorted in anger. She doesn’t find any words, so she just settles on scowling.

“What is going on here?” I look between the both of them for answers, even at the others present in the room, but the spectators remain wisely silent. Well, most of them.

“Mrs Platt was accusing Miss Montague of theft,” Helena says, not particularly bothered by the entire scene. Both Felicity and Johanna send her a murderous look.

“Was she?” I say, with an emphatic look in Felicity’s direction, that I hope conveys _Please don’t have stolen anything._ But Felicity looks away, contrite.

I sigh deeply.

“All right. Felicity - why don’t you come with me to tell me the whole story.”

“You’re going to interrogate _her_?” Johanna sounds indignant. “She’s been lying all night. She won’t tell you the truth.”

“She will,” I say, with an impatient smile, “since I’m also trying to solve a theft and it could be relevant.” I’m already heading for the door, but I stop when I find Platt in my way.

“A theft?” he says. “I thought you were trying to solve a murder.”

“I am,” I say wearily. “I’m just… _also_ trying to solve a theft. It’s related.”

“In that case you might want to interrogate her accomplice, too,” Johanna says from behind me. I turn, and she’s glaring at the woman with the headscarf, who’s feigning innocence.

“Fine. Both of you. With me.”

As I head out, I sneak a look at Monty without meaning to. He meets my eyes. I start, and look away.

“All right. I’m running out of time, so no lies. What did you two steal from Johanna?”

“What do you mean, running out of time?” the woman with the headscarf - Sim Aldajah - asks. She doesn’t seem nearly bothered enough by the accusation.

Felicity, on the chair beside her, leans over. “There’s a time bomb. Percy has ten hours…” she looks at the clock, “or rather eight left, at the moment, to solve the disappearance of the Heart, or the whole place is blown up.”

I give her an admonishing glance, and she shrugs.

Sim isn’t impressed. “That was in the letter.”

I ignore their conversation. “What did you steal?”

“We didn’t steal,” Sim says. “It didn’t belong to Johanna’s mother in the first place.”

“Then who did it belong to?” I ask monotonously, getting less and less interested in this petty squabble by the second. I glance at the clock.

“...No one,” Felicity says eventually, to which Sim adds: “It has to be protected and taken care of properly.”

“And studied,” Felicity concludes, though Sim doesn’t seem to agree with that entirely.

“Let’s take a step back. _What_ did you steal?”

The two ladies conduct a conversation entirely made out of eye contact and minimal facial expressions. Then Sim turns to me: “That’s classified.”

I gawk at her. “... _Classified?_ ”

Felicity nods. “Classified.”

I’m so stunned for a moment that I’m at a loss for words. We’re in the middle of a homicide investigation, we’re stuck in a building that will be leveled in less than eight hours, yet apparently I am not privy to this information.

“Classified by whom?” I eventually manage.

They exchange another glance. “That’s also classified,” Sim eventually says.

I press my palms together to my lips, doing my very best to retain my calm. I take a deep breath. “Well, then,” I say, with as much composure as I can muster. I pretend I’m about to stand up. “Since neither of you wants to share, why don’t I go ask Johanna-”

“Wait!”

I stop, knowing I’ve won.

Felicity squints at me, clearly peeved, then rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

Sim turns to her. “ _Fine?_ ”

“We can trust him.”

“Can we?”

“He’s a friend. I’ve known him since I was born.”

Sim looks between Felicity and I, clearly suspicious. After a scrutiny of almost a full minute, she sighs. “All right.” Then she points a finger at me. “But this better not leave the room.”

I sit back down, crossing my arms, waiting.

“We work for the Crown and Cleaver,” Sim says.

My jaw drops. “ _We_? Felicity?”

I look at her, and she rises up in defense. “They’re - _we’re_ \- doing good work! Laws surrounding magic - _especially_ magical creatures - are still sorely lacking, and they’re being hunted down, captured, and exploited for their scales or skin or - or forced to work for circuses and freakshows. Not to mention the total lack of regulation on magical objects! Everyone just takes what they want and use it for their personal gain - it’s a mess! And then we’re not even talking about _human beings_ with magic - you of all people should know.”

She realizes she’s said too much, and Sim realizes it too. “Why’s that?” she questions.

“B-because…” Felicity hesitates, seeking a lie, “because he works with law enforcement. He sees all the transgressions up close.”

I let it slide, hoping Sim hasn’t figured anything out yet. “While you should know I could have you both arrested for this-” I give them a warning glare, “-there are more urgent matters at hand. So. What did you steal for the Crown and Cleaver?”

They’re both silent for a long, tense moment, before Felicity lets her shoulders slump. “The Panacea Heart.”

_The bloody Panacea Heart._

I look at her, indignant. “The Heart. You _knew_ it was in that letter.”

“Well, we don’t have it at the moment, so I didn’t think it’d matter!”

“Felicity,” I say slowly, “in less than eight hours, a bomb is going to go off.”

She shrinks back into her chair, going red. “I’m sorry, all right? I just really don’t think we’d be able to help much with the mystery of where it is now.”

I take a deep breath, and lean back. “All right. Just start from the beginning.”

Felicity and Sim trade glances, deciding who’ll talk, and it ends up being Felicity. “I wanted to visit Johanna for her wedding, because I knew she was marrying Platt. I didn’t have the resources to get there, so Sim offered to help, on the condition that she could come along.”

“The Heart was last seen in the possession of Johanna Hoffman’s late mother,” Sim continues. “I needed to get it. There’d been done a lot of damage with it already, and the Crown and Cleaver can safely store it, and possibly-” she looks at Felicity, “-study it, to learn more.”

“Johanna’s mother,” I say slowly, puzzle pieces clicking into place. “Her name wouldn’t happen to be Sybille Glass, would it?”

Both women look at me.

“How do you know that?” Sim asks, but I noncommitedly shake my head, gesturing them to continue.

“Back then, I still looked up to Platt,” Felicity says, disgust in her voice. I think back of the letters she sent me. “He was the only reason I wanted to be there. I thought I needed his help to become a doctor. It was ridiculous.” She shakes her head, then returns to the story: “When we were there, I found out what Sim was trying to do. At first I… didn’t like it. But pretty soon we found out that Platt was after the Heart, too. If it got in his hands, who knew what he’d do with it.”

 _So he_ did _know about the Heart._

“But he couldn’t access it - or any of Johanna’s mother’s belongings - until he’d married Johanna. So we…” she looks pained, “...tried to crash the wedding.”

“We were pretty successful,” Sim says.

“It didn’t work. Johanna didn’t believe me.” Felicity then adds, meekly: “Though I suppose I wouldn’t have believed me, either, after everything I’d…” A sigh. “Anyway, Sim and I resorted to plan B, which was finding out where the artifacts were kept and rushing over to steal them ourselves. We barely beat Platt to it.”

“But we did beat him,” Sim continues. “We found the Heart.”

“But you don’t have it anymore,” I say.

She tenses up. “We took it back to England and delivered it to my f- to the Crown and Cleaver. We had it for quite some time. We didn’t see any threat in it right away, so we stored it away safely for the time being. We were preoccupied, anyway, with it being breeding season for sea dragons, and every bounty hunter in Europe trying to trap them while they were on land…” She clenches her jaw.

I frown. “Sea dragons.” I look at Felicity. “Your research.”

She looks contrite. “After… I helped with the Heart, Sim gave me the opportunity to study the medicinal possibilities of dragon scales. I found a way to replicate the effect without there being any actual scales required. That’s… what finally got the medical world to take me seriously.” She shrugs, eyes downcast. “I owe it all to Sim.”

Sim is looking away in a very earnest imitation of indifference.

I let it all sink in for a bit, glancing from my notes to the pair in front of me. Though I don’t approve of half of what they’ve done, I can’t help but understand. “I thought you didn’t care about getting the medical world’s approval anymore?” I say softly.

Felicity makes a vague gesture. “I don’t. Honestly. But this way I can get funds for research, and now that I’m officially appointed in the hospital, I can finally help people.” She’s got a small smile on her lips, and her eyes are sincere when they meet mine. “It’s what I’ve always wanted.” The vulnerability in her expression vanishes quickly. “Also, it’s the metaphorical equivalent of spitting in the London Medical Society’s face, so.”

I can’t help it, a chuckle escapes me. I’m happy for her.

But I need to focus on the case.

“The Heart,” I remind them.

“Felicity took it home to study,” Sim says, and Felicity looks peeved.

“Someone stole it from me!” she exclaims. “I can’t believe it. I can’t even think of anyone who’d have _known_ I had it.”

“Not even someone within the Crown and Cleaver?” I ask.

“No one in the Crown and Cleaver would do such a thing,” Sim immediately interferes.

“Also, it was, like we said, classified,” Felicity adds. “Not many people knew. Only us two, and S- and the organization’s leader, I think.”

I smile. “I’m sure you can’t give me their name?”

They both decidedly shake their heads.

I’m still writing down Sim and Felicity’s alibis for the time of the murder - they can vouch for each other - while Johanna enters the room and sits down in front of me. She’s fiddling with her dress.

“Are they arrested?” she asks, after a long silence.

I look up, and expect to find indignance in her eyes, but I’m met with worry. “Not… at the moment. Why?”

She exhales in what strangely seems to be relief. “Oh, I just… don’t want Felicity to get in trouble.”

I blink at her. “She stole from you.”

A shrug. “I know. But she’s still my friend.”

I say nothing.

When I’m finally done writing, I don’t know how to break the silence. I end up going for awkwardly clearing my throat. “Where were you between seven and seven thirty?”

“With my husband.”

“Okay. He confirms that, so you’re probably good.” _Or you’re both lying._ But I’m trying to get her to disclose information to me, so I don’t tell her that.

She relaxes a little.

“Felicity told me about the Heart.”

She tilts her head. “Heart?”

“...Yes. The Heart… that they stole from you?”

Her lips part, eyes darting left and right, searching for words. “I… didn’t know it was a Heart. What kind of heart?”

“The panacea type,” I say, only half intending to. “What do you mean you didn’t know?”

“I… never got to my mother’s belongings,” she admits. “Felicity and her… accomplice got their hands on them first, and Alexander took what was left.”

“...Right. So you didn’t know what your mother was researching?”

Her mouth is a fine line. “No,” she says. “I… know she documented findings, and that she had a particular interest for magical things, but nothing specific.”

It’s the truth, and she sounds rather sad about it. I vaguely remember from when we were all younger that Johanna’s mother travelled a lot, and died when Johanna was still young. I feel sorry for her.

_Focus._

“So you have no idea where the Heart is now?” I ask, already reviewing my notes in acceptance that this final interrogation isn’t going to yield any new information.

She hesitates. Her voice is quiet and almost embarrassed when she leans in and asks: “How important is it that you know, exactly?”

I look up. “Quite important.”

She’s chewing on her bottom lips, eyes darting all over the place. “I…” she eventually starts, “stole it back.”

I drop my pen.

“It wasn’t really stealing!” She puts her hands up in defense. “Since it was supposed to be mine in the first place.”

“You have the Heart?” I ask, a little in disbelief. _It couldn’t be that easy, could it?_

“...No.”

 _Clearly, it can’t_.

“I was visiting Felicity,” she starts, awkwardly, “I wanted to talk about the wedding. Make amends. I didn’t even know she’d actually _stolen_ anything yet. But when I got there, she wasn’t home, but the door was open, and… there it was.” She scoffs. “I recognized it from a drawing. The box.”

 _Wait._ “Box?”

She nods. “Yeah, the Heart must’ve been inside, right? If that’s what Felicity took.”

“...Okay. So you took it.”

She shrugs, looked pained. “I feel so terrible about it,” she says. “I just wanted to talk things out with her, but when I saw that, I…” She buries her face in her hands.

“But you don’t have it anymore.”

“No. I returned home, and tried to get it to open for some time - which I couldn’t - and then, one day it was just gone! Someone must’ve-”

I already know what she’s going to say.

“-stolen it!”

I suppress my deepest sigh of the night so far.

After having studied my notes for so long the writing is starting to blur in front of my eyes, I rip out a blank page and shove the notebook aside. _Let’s review._

_Mr and Mrs Robles, together with Glass, found a magical Heart. The Heart killed Mrs Robles. Glass took the Heart, probably sealed it in a box. Glass dies. Johanna is about to inherit the box. Platt attempts to get it but Felicity and Sim beat him to it. Johanna then steals the box again from Felicity, but it is stolen from her as well._

Which leaves me with no clue where the Heart is, and I’m out of suspects to question.

I can’t help but wonder about one thing. _Why_ does everyone - almost everyone - present here tonight have some link to the Heart? Helena and Dante’s parents, together with Johanna’s mother, found it. Platt was after it, and so were Felicity and Sim. That leaves the only person uninvolved… me.

And Monty.

 _Monty._ I try to shake the thought, as if it’s a pestering insect. The last few years, I’ve been able to sort of compartmentalize him in my head. I allow myself to think about him at night, and can forgive the occasional sting of memory when something reminds me of him. That way, I can be a functioning human being during the day. But tonight, everything is messed up. He’s everywhere; not just literally, but in my head, too. Grief and regret I’d long ago stowed away welling up, flooding my mind. I feel like I could drown in him.

But I need to focus. Our lives depend on it.

_Monty’s life depends on it._

Back to the case. Everyone involved, but no one knows where the Heart is. Or so they claim.

I frown. There’s something so very _off_ about all of this. I can’t put my finger to it, and it frustrates me.

I face the fact that I’m not going to solve the mystery of the Heart anytime soon, and focus on the other crime: the murder on the Duke. The image of his corpse flashes before my mind’s eye, and I shudder. I’ve gotten used to crime scenes by now, but there’s never really a… getting _used_ to it. Maybe I just haven’t been doing this job for long enough. My older coworkers definitely claim that. Though there’s some part of me that hopes I’ll never get used to it, that I’ll never grown indifferent to it.

Indifference to such horrors terrify me.

Maybe it’s the fact that we’ve had no choice but to simply leave the body where it was found in the library, unable to have it brought to the morgue. Maybe it’s the house. Maybe it’s the bomb. Maybe it’s this… Heart. Maybe it’s M-

 _Don’t even_ think _about him._

I sigh. How I feel about all of this doesn’t matter. I need to solve this.

The window between dinner and the discovery of the body is the only opportunity anyone - aside from Helena and Dante - had the opportunity to poison the Duke. Not to mention it’s the only window of opportunity for _anyone_ to leave the letter. And yet, I’m finding out that everyone has an alibi for then, albeit not a very solid one: Monty was with me, Felicity was with Sim, Johanna was with Platt, and the Robles siblings were together.

Which makes that very likely not one but _two_ people are lying and involved.

 _Or,_ a helpful voice in my head supplies, _maybe it’s someone completely different who’s infiltrated the building and who you haven’t even seen yet. Maybe you’re completely on the wrong track._

_Maybe you can’t solve this one in time._

I look at the hour. Six hours to go.

I’m running out of time.


	3. Complications

I’ve my head rested on the desk, eyes closed. I’m trying to pacify a starting headache with some darkness, when someone knocks on the door. I sit up, more disoriented than I should be. I wasn’t asleep - I couldn’t, in circumstances like these - but I’m exhausted and my vision is spotty. I blink. “Who’s there?”

The door opens.

“Can I come in?” Monty asks.

As if on command, my headache worsens.

_Please don’t. Please just… go away._

“Sure,” I say.

He quietly closes the door behind him, then makes his way across the study and sits down across me. Silently. Timidly. His shoulders raised, his chin ducked, his eyes cast down. Acting scared, looking nervous. He’s wearing it like a particularly ill-fitted wardrobe. Where is the Monty I remember? Loud and rude and reckless and so good at making me worry over his next rash decision? That Monty... might have had a talent for getting on my nerves, but this is so much worse.

“Have you solved the case yet?” he asks.

I’d expected such a question to spark irritation, but it doesn’t. Maybe I’m too tired to be annoyed. Maybe it’s the vulnerability in his voice. I don’t know. But I just sigh. “No. Neither case. Not the murder, not the theft. I’m…” I look at the clock - a nervous habit I’ve quickly developed these past few hours. “It’s not good.”

“You still have time, don’t you?” Monty says in an attempt at optimism that’s so bad it sounds more like _he_ needs to be reassured about all of this.

“Five hours and a half.”

“Yes. Exactly. You can solve it.”

I frown at him. I feel like this night my brow has settled into a permanent frown, not unsimilar to the expressions I see older colleagues wear every day. _I’m not ready to be that old yet_ , I think meekly.

_You’ll be lucky if you manage to survive tonight._

“It just… doesn’t make any sense! Everyone has an alibi, but no one has a solid one. And why is everything linked to the Heart?”

He looks confused, so I give my notebook a little shove in his direction. He picks it up, opening it. He frowns. “In case of severe injury, Lazarus Potion can be used in medicinal contexts to induce a coma-like state, actively freezing vi-” he reads aloud, and I stop him.

“No. That’s an older case. You gotta… it’s toward the end of the notebook.”

He flips the pages, brow furrowed, then he stops. “The Bourbon murder,” he says, and I nod.

I rest my head for a bit longer while he reads, enjoying the short break. My eyes hurt from squinting at lamplight, and having someone in even the smallest of ways taking over the case for a few minutes lets me relax.

_I missed being around him._

I tense up at the thought, but say nothing.

After half-dozing for not nearly long enough, Monty lets out a sigh, closing the notebook. “Christ,” is all he says.

“Exactly.”

I look up, chin resting on my folded arms to look for his reaction. I can see him processing the information. Then, he leans back with a whistle. “Felicity joined some secret organization. That’s… something.”

I smile tiredly. “Disappointed?”

“Impressed.” His eyes meet mine, and for a second I catch a glimpse of that spark of his I’ve always so adored. It vanishes just as quickly, though, like the trails of firework extinguishing in the night.

“Honestly, I never even knew she was interested in medicine,” he says. He pauses. There’s regret in his voice when he continues: “Maybe I should have. Maybe I should’ve cared more. Then maybe she wouldn’t have left.”

“You think Felicity left because she thought you didn’t _care_?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe it was a part.”

“You’re not… feeling guilty about it, are you?”

“I… did, until I saw her today and…” He bites his lip, seemingly torn between sadness and relief. “...and she’s fine! She’s better than fine. She… She’s thriving.” He suddenly looks me in the eye. “You’re thriving.”

It feels like being pinned against a wall - not in the good way. It’s intense, and I feel as though I’m accused of something, though I damn well know I’m not. Then he looks away, and I let go of a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

_You’re thriving._

_Am I?_ I want to ask. _Am I? Because I’ve got a steady job and a roof over my head and an income - sure, I won’t complain. But that’s never what I wanted in the first place. That’s never what I cared about. I would’ve tossed all of that aside without a second thought if you had run with me._

_I’d toss it all aside if you’d run with me right now._

That last realization stings so badly that I feel tears welling up in my eye. I turn around, pretending to look out of the window, at the locked gate.

“Well, I certainly was,” I say. “But now I’m stuck here and I might die, so.”

Monty’s quiet for a while. “It’s so hard to believe that this is actually happening. Someone _died_ tonight. I wasn’t the Duke’s biggest fan, but…”

“It’s always ugly,” I say.

We’re quiet for a bit. I turn, and find him lost in thought. “It’s so weird. Only three weeks ago I was at another party here. Feels like yesterday he was mocking me for everyone to hear.” He chuckles.

“So you’ve kept up your little feud with him until the end?”

He gives me a crooked grin. “Well, we were never going to get along. I wonder if he ever found out-” He shuts his mouth, looking contrite.

“Monty,” I say, half amused and half dreading his answer. “What’d you do?”

“Nothing!” he exclaims. “Listen. He started it by calling me names in front of all his fancy guests. I took a little revenge, is all.”

I give him a look.

“It wasn’t anything bad,” he insists, and he sure believes it. “It’d just have pissed him off. Serves him right.”

I sigh an exasperated smile. It’s familiar. As much as I’ve always been the first to tell Monty how reckless he was being, I’m sort of relieved he’s still like that, even in the smallest of ways.

“What are you looking at me like that for?”

I realize I’ve been staring, and I go red. “Nothing. I was just… thinking.”

“Trying to solve the case?” He grins at me, eyebrow raised. In that moment he looks so much like the Monty I loved - the Monty I'll always love - that it takes my breath away.

A small smile. “Something like that.”

“I’m sure you can do it,” he says confidently, sitting up. “You’re going to arrest the killer, we’re going to get out of here, and then maybe…” He hesitates, hand faltering somewhere mid-air. “Then maybe we could, uh…”

He puts his hand overtop of mine where it’s resting on the desk, and a shock goes through me. I meet his eyes. He’s looking shy, something desperate in the crease of his brow, and he’s still searching for words. “Maybe we could…”

But then I realize something cold and heavy is pressing into the back of my hand. I look down.

And immediately pull my hand back.

Monty doesn’t realize what’s wrong right away. He looks distracted, caught in the middle of a sentence, confused. But then he sees his own right hand, and the offending piece of metal around one of his fingers.

_He’s wearing a wedding ring._

He raises his hands in defense, looking panicked. “This isn’t what it looks like. I swear!”

I've jumped to my feet, trying to get more distance between us. Why does my voice sound so high? “Oh, so you’re about to tell me you’re _not_ married?”

“It isn’t like that! I…” He looks pleading. “I… I am, technically, but that doesn’t mean-”

The door is thrown open. We both look up, startled as criminals caught red-handed. I can feel warmth rising to my cheeks.

It’s Felicity. She seemed determined to instantly share what she came here to say, but halts when she spots Monty. Her eyes dart between the both of us, being awfully close together and both looking flustered. I quickly stand up and ask: “What is it?”

Her eyes linger on Monty for a second longer, then she turns to me. “We found something I think you should see.”

“I kept thinking about what was in that letter,” she explains, as Monty and I follow her through the abandoned hallways of the mansion. “About how the killer said they’d be _watching us_ . I know you think it’s because they’re one of us, but I started to think - what if they’re not? And then I started thinking about how I’ve been getting the creeps of this place all night, because I actually _do_ feel as though I’m being watched.”

Those words make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. _I wasn’t the only one._

“And then I reasoned - _how_ could someone be watching us remotely? I had a suspicion, so I went out to search-”

“Felicity.” I take her arm, stopping her. “There is a murderer at large. You left on your own?”

She shakes off my grip with a roll of her eyes. “Of course not. Sim…” she waves ahead, where Sim is waiting for us, “came with me. We found this.”

Sim is standing next to a mirror nearly as tall as she is. When the three of us stop in front of her, she digs her fingers behind the mirror’s frame and starts pulling.

“I thought - what if they had some sort of surveillance system?” Felicity continues, “What could they be using for that? And then I realized what’s all around us.”

After a particular hard tug, the mirror frame surrenders its hold on the wall, and swings open on hinges I hadn’t even spotted yet. I expect to see the wall behind it - but instead I’m met with a _room_.

I gape.

The room is very small, only large enough to fit one person inside and only if they immediately sit down in the comfortable chair in the middle. From the ceiling to the floor, the walls are entirely covered in _screens_. Bulky, large and small, giving off a faint light, as they occasionally flicker. I step inside, my hand brushing over the back of the chair.

The screens show _everything_. Every place I’ve seen inside the house and a whole bunch I haven’t are being monitored. One shows the lounge, where Platt, Johanna, Dante and Helena currently reside. In another I catch sight of - I realize, with a shock - my own back. I turn hastily, and almost jump when I come face to face with my reflection.

It’s a mirror, I realize, when I calm down, one Felicity’s holding up. “Mirrors,” she said. “I think almost every one must have some sort of… camera, or watching spell, or something, in them.” She sighs, nostrils flaring, looking as deceived as I feel. “Someone’s been watching us all night.”

_I’ll be watching you._

They definitely weren’t lying.

I feel tricked. I should’ve noticed there was something wrong. I should’ve known right away. The room feels so tight I can’t breathe in here. I push past Felicity, into the hallway, where Monty - _Monty, why is he even still here?_ \- gives me a worried look. He lifts a hand, the want to comfort me in his eyes, but I pretend not to see and turn away. I stare at the end of the hallway, where it twists into the next, and try to pull myself together.

Then I see something moving in the shadows. A person walks in from around the corner, stops dead in their tracks when they see us, then instantly spin and run.

_The murderer._

I sprint after them. I can hear the others calling my name, but I don’t stop to explain. They’ve already got too much distance on me.

I almost slam into the wall when I turn the corner, slowing down a moment to look around, convinced I’ve lost them - but then I see a figure rounding the next corner. I race after them. Corner after corner in this maze of a house. I feel as though I’m gaining on them-

I’m suddenly in a room. I think I’m surrounded - but then realize it’s just ten times my reflection, looking frightened. I look around. It’s a giant hall, with mirrors everywhere - a true maze of them. It’s dark, and it’s hard to hear anything over my agitated breathing. I pause. To my left, I hear footsteps. I run toward it.

 _Not_ running into a mirror proves more difficult than expected. They’re absolutely all over the place, and it’s hard to tell what’s real and what is just a reflection. I’m disoriented, mostly following a sound, though the vastness of the hall makes everything echo. I don’t give up. I might never get this chance again.

I spot movement in the corner of my eyes and leap for it, convinced I’ve got them-

-and slam face first into a mirror.

I quietly allow Felicity to ramble about “being careful” and “reckless stunts” as she’s pulling the last tiny glass fragments out of my arm. We’re in the study, not at the desk but on a few couches in a corner. Felicity’s working in the light of the lamp she pulled closer, dabbing the cuts with some disinfectant she found.

Monty’s sitting across of me, hands folded together, and is watching me with worry. He’s mindlessly fiddling with his ring. I stare, and when he realizes what he’s doing, he goes red and puts his hands in his pockets.

Then, for what feels like the millionth time tonight, someone bursts in the room. This time, it’s Platt. I hardly do more than raise an eyebrow when he enters, though he looks rather angry.

“You have some explaining to do.” He points an accusatory finger at me as soon as he’s located me. Behind him, Johanna, Helena, Dante and Sim pour in. Sim gives me a grimace.

_So, actually bad news._

“What’s going on?” I ask, voice steady. A piece of paper is shoved into my face.

“This was thrown in through the window, tied around a brick,” Platt says.

I take the paper from him, and he crosses his arms. Everyone watches me as I read, Felicity leaning in beside me to read along.

My blood freezes in my veins.

_I believed I warned you to stay focused on solving the theft, Mr Newton. Distractions won’t be tolerated. I’ve therefore altered the time of detonation to 3 o’clock. If you try to go after me again, I will set off the device immediately._

It’s the killer’s handwriting.

“What, _exactly_ , is meant by _time of detonation_?” Platt asks, tone implying he already knows.

I exchange a glance with Felicity and Monty, even though I already know there’s nothing to be done about it now.

“The murderer has hidden a time bomb in the building,” I explain, through gritted teeth. “Originally set to go off in ten hours.”

A shock goes through the small crowd. Johanna gasps. Dante’s eyes shift nervously between everyone present.

“I see. And you withheld this information why, exactly?” Platt asks.

 _There is no way this ends well._ “To avoid panic.”

“Well, excellent job at that. We’re definitely perfectly calm, knowing you failed to mention we’re all going to _die_ in - what was it? Two hours now?”

I look at the clock. It’s one in the morning. Two hours left, it is.

“No one’s going to die,” I say, impatiently. I want to stand up, but Felicity’s still busy with bandaging my arm. “The first letter said the bomb would be dismantled if I’d solve the mystery of the Panacea Heart. Which might’ve been easier if I wouldn’t been _lied to_.” I send him a sharp look, to which he replies with feigned innocence.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You knew damn well about the Heart. You were after it, too.”

Platt sneers at me. “Says who? _Them?_ ” He tips his chin toward Felicity, and then toward Sim.

“Interesting you knew right away who to accuse.”

“I know who to accuse because they were spreading the same _lies_ when they showed up to interfere with my wedding.”

“They aren’t lies.”

“How do you know?”

I bite my tongue.

Platt senses a victory. “Exactly. You can’t prove it. Hell, for all we know you’re conspiring with them. Old friends, were you not?”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “There is no point in fighting. All of our lives are at stake. It’s in our best interest to-”

“To what? Put our lives in the hands of the first _detective_ who claims he can solve the murder? Who put you in charge, anyway?”

I suck in my cheeks. “No one, as I am not in charge. I’m merely trying to-”

“Good. Let’s solve the mystery for ourselves, then.” He turns to the others present. “Who knows where the Heart is? Speak now, because that archaeological trinket is not worth anyone’s lives, and especially not mine.”

I perk up. “Interesting choice of words.”

He slowly turns, glancing at me over his shoulder. “What?”

“Archaeological trinket. How did you know about the relation to archaeology?”

A glimpse of realization crosses his face, passing quickly. He waves it away. “A guess. Aren’t all magical objects ancient these days?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Who said it was magical?”

He opens his mouth for a retort, but Johanna gives him a flick against the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Oh, for God’s sake, Alexander. Stop acting like a child and tell him everything you know.”

Platt gives her a glance. He then looks around to find all eyes in the room on him, no one looking particularly friendly. Felicity finishes up the bandage and I cross my arms.

He throws his hands up in defeat. “So I might’ve known the Heart existed. What of it?”

“How did you know?” I ask.

“Rumors.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Or so you claim.”

Johanna gives Platt a deadly glare.

He sighs. “Sybille Glass let it slip.”

Johanna’s jaw drops. “My _mother_? You knew her?”

“We traveled together at one point.” Platt’s tone is placating when he speaks to her, but he’s looking trapped. “I’m sure I mentioned it at one point.”

“You did _not_.”

“What did she say about the Heart?” I press.

Platt shrugs. “What it was. How it worked.”

“How _did_ it work?”

“Haven’t you figured it out by now? I’m sure either of _them_ could’ve mentioned it.” He gestures at the Robles siblings, disdain in his tone. Dante squeaks, but Helena gives him a harsh stare back.

“Just tell me,” I say wearily.

Platt stares at me for a moment longer, before saying: “The Heart is some sort of… gemstone, combined with ancient mechanics. It’s made to be held by two people. It’s not a _cure-all_ , as Glass and the Robleses originally believed. It transfers life energy.”

I blink. “I beg your pardon?”

“The first person who touches it will give all the years they had left to live to the second.” He shrugs carelessly, as if that isn’t horrifying. “It’s what happened to your parents, wasn’t it?”

I realize he’s talking to Dante and Helena. Helena’s looking furious, Dante is cowering in place. It dawns on me.

“Your father took your mother’s years left to live,” I say.

Helena instantly straightens her back. “It was an accident,” she insists.

“ _Lifelong_ has taken on a different meaning for poor old Mateu, hasn’t it?” Platt says nonchalantly, and Helena looks as though she’s about to attack him.

I quickly stand up between them. “That’s enough.” Then, to Platt: “Not mentioning this earlier could count as obstruction of investigation, you know.”

“Perhaps you didn’t pose your questions well enough.”

I decide not to put any more energy into him, instead turn to the others present. “All right. Now you all know what’s at stake, has anyone else got anything they’d like to share with the group?”

“I’m not convinced you’re going to solve this in time,” Sim says. It’s not accusing or mocking, it’s just a statement of facts. Which makes it more annoying.

“Thank you. Anyone else?”

“Did you marry me so you could get at my mother’s belongings?”

It’s said softly, but with an intensity that makes us all turn. Johanna is staring Platt down, who’s looking not so much indignant at the accusation as he’s looking peeved.

“Johanna, dear, be reasonable,” he says boredly.

“Did you?”

“We’ll discuss this once we get home.”

“We might never get home again. Tell me right now.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!” Her voice cracks at the last word. When he doesn’t reply, her expression drops in disbelief. “Felicity was telling the truth.”

Platt avoids eye contact, looking not nearly as regretting as a man in his situation ought to be. I look to my side, half expecting Felicity to look smug at hearing Johanna admit she was right, but she looks distraught, too.

Johanna scoffs, eyes wide and looking hurt. “H-how _could you_? You-” She changes her mind, starting to look angry. “You know what? I always suspected. I always had a feeling something was off. But I chose to trust you.”

“Not my fault, is it?”

His voice is so cold and emotionless it scares me. Johanna takes a step back. “I can’t believe this. I can’t-”

“Your mother wasn’t very bright, either. It might be genetic.”

I expect Johanna to attack him, but am surprised when I hear a voice at my side say harshly: “Sybille Glass was a brilliant scientist. If you can’t understand that, it’s perhaps more due to your own complete lack of a brain.”

Platt finally turns back to the conversation to look at Felicity, who’s staring him down with fury in her eyes. “If you look up to ‘scientist’ like her,” Platt says slowly, “it’s not exactly surprising you’re such a poor excuse for a doctor.”

I take a step aside so that now I’m between Platt and Felicity instead. I raise my voice, sending them both stern glances. “All right, that’s enough. We need to focus.”

“Yes, focus,” Platt repeats. “Miss Montague, why don’t you share with us the whereabouts of the Heart? Since you stole it and all.”

“I don’t have it,” Felicity snaps. “It was stolen from me, too.”

Platt curls his upper lip. “How very apt. If it were true.”

“It’s true,” Johanna says quietly. Everyone turns to her. She sends Felicity an apologetic glance. “I stole it back from her.”

Felicity gapes at her, then shuts her mouth. But before she can say anything, Platt takes a step toward Johanna. “ _When?_ Why didn’t you give it to me?”

“It’s not yours!” Johanna says, though she’s looking scared. I put a warning hand on Platt’s shoulder, ready to pull him back if it would prove to be necessary. “It belonged to my mother! So now it belongs to _me_.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Platt snaps. “You couldn’t possibly understand how valuable it is.”

“Because I’m, what? A woman?”

Platt’s voice is strained with forced patience. “Just tell me where it is, dear.”

Johanna lifts her chin. “I don’t have it.”

A pause. “I don’t believe you.”

“She’s telling the truth,” I interject.

Platt looks at me, loathing in his eyes, and shrugs off my hand. “Mind your own business.”

“Well, we need the Heart to keep us all from being blown up, so I’d say it sort of is my business,” I say dryly.

Platt ignores me, and instead turns back to Johanna. “Tell me where it is.”

“I don’t have it! Someone stole it from me.”

Platt snorts. “Obviously.”

“What do you want with it, anyway?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“No. Your mother didn’t understand either. She hid the stupid thing in a box and tried to hide it from the world, claiming it was _dangerous_ . Trying to hide how _incompetent_ she was on dealing with it.”

“My mother wanted to- she’s-”

“ _Dead_ . You can’t know what she wanted, because she’s on the bottom of the ocean. Because she refused to tell me where the _goddamn box was!_ ”

The room lapses into silence. I take a step back. Johanna covers her mouth in horror. “Wh-what,” she asks, trembling, “did you _do_?”

Platt looks around the room, agitated. Then he laughs - a sound getting dangerously close to madness. “We’re all going to die, anyway. What does it matter?” He turns to Johanna, looking as though he might actually hurt her. “There was a storm. The ship was sinking. I offered to help her. I gave your mother the opportunity to do the right thing. But she refused to tell me where the Heart was.” Platt straightens his back. “Her death was her own fault.”

We’re all gaping at him. Johanna looks beyond horrified. She’s backed away, now almost standing against the wall, and there are tears on her cheeks, leaving shimmering trails on her make-up. She gasps for breath for a while, trying to find words but failing. Then her expression changes into rage.

“Y-you… You _killed_ her.”

Platt’s turned away. “I didn’t sink the ship. All I can be accused of is… _failing_ to save her.”

“You didn’t even try,” Felicity says, voice almost unrecognizable with disbelief and hatred. “You could’ve saved her but you didn’t. Because she didn’t want to tell you where the stupid Heart was?”

Platt’s got his back to us, staring at the windows on the far end of the office. It’s perfectly dark outside, rain reflecting the lights inside. His voice is controlled. “Some things are more important than lives.”

“You’re a _doctor_ ,” Felicity gasps.

“Yes. I’m a doctor. I save lives. But this Heart has possibilities. What’s one life compared to that?”

“You’re a monster,” Johanna says, in tears. “You’re a murderer.”

He abruptly turns to her, grabbing her arms. Johanna yelps. “Let’s not get hasty with the accusations.” His expression is almost maniacal. “Now tell me where the Heart is.”

Johanna’s trembling, but she looks him in the eyes and shakes her head. “No.”

“Tell me.”

“ _No!_ Let me go!”

“Where is the bloody-”

He is interrupted by a punch in the jaw.

The room is frozen in that moment, as we all realize what just happened. Platt is bent over, holding one hand to the sore spot on his jaw, gaping. He slowly turns to face the person who’s thrown the punch. It’s Felicity, looking as surprised as anyone else what she’s done, though that surprise quickly turns into determination.

“How dare you,” Platt breathes. “How dare you, you little-”

He lurches toward her, but before I can do something, Sim steps in between. In her hand she’s got a long, pointy object, and she points it at Platt. “I wouldn’t do that,” she snarls.

“I think it’s best if you leave, Mr Platt,” I say.

He turns to me, a mixture of anger and panic on his face. “There is a _murderer_ on the loose,” he says, to which I raise an eyebrow. “You expect me to go wandering this house on my own?”

I consider him for a moment, looking between him and the three women giving him death glares. I shrug. “Suit yourself,” I say. “Though I’m not sure you’re much safer if you stay here.”

I’m leaning back in the chair, studying the screens in front of me. I’ve taken up residence in the surveillance room - partly because I want to avoid having the murderer resume his spying on us, and partly because most guests have settled in the study I was previously using. I watch Platt aimlessly wander the hallways for a bit. In the study, I can see Felicity and Sim sitting down with Johanna, comforting her as she cries. Dante and Helena have huddled together in a corner. Everyone accounted for, except-

“Percy? You in here?”

I suppress a sigh. _I could just not say anything._ But I’m exhausted, and with our impending doom in less than an hour… I could use a little company. So I just stretch my leg and push open the hidden door from the inside. And there he is - the love of my life, the bane of my existence, the most beautiful man alive - Henry ‘Monty’ Montague, standing in the hallway, looking sheepish.

“I thought I made it clear it’s dangerous to walk around alone?” I say, half-heartedly.

“Well, I’m with you now, aren’t I?” He glances behind him. “Can I come in? These dark hallways are giving me the creeps.”

I shift a little in my seat. “Feel free to. But it’s not exactly spacious in here.”

Monty takes a step inside, then closes the door behind him. It’s so small that, even leaning against the doorframe, his legs are pressed against my chair. I’ve turned to face the monitors to not have to look him in the eye.

“I want to explain, if you’ll let me,” he says quietly.

I look at him from my peripheral, then sigh. “You don’t have to explain anything. I couldn’t exactly have expected you to… _wait for me_ , or anything.”

“I would have.”

His eyes meet mine. He looks earnest, and he’s speaking the truth. My heart aches. I turn away again. “So… what’s she like?”

It takes him some time to understand what I’m talking about. “Oh,” he eventually says. He hesitates. “She’s- she’s all right.”

“All right?”

“Well, my Father chose her, so it could’ve been much worse.”

His tone is far lighter than I would’ve expected it to be on this subject. Maybe that should annoy me. But if I’m being honest - right now, I’m far too tired to be annoyed by anything Monty. I’m almost... glad he’s here.

I scold myself for the thought.

“So?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me about her.”

Monty scoffs, a small smile playing around his lips. “You don’t actually want to know.”

“Sure I do.”

“Sometimes I wish _I_ could tell if you were lying to me, you know?”

“Hmm.”

Monty readjusts himself, so he’s half leaning on a dashboard. “All right, then. Her name is Jeanne, and she dislikes the situation as much as I do.”

“So you two can’t stand each other?”

“What? No. We’re friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yeah.”

I study him for a while. He isn’t lying.

“All right, then. Is she pretty?”

Monty scoffs. “She’s gorgeous. _Beyond_ gorgeous.”

A twinge of pain goes through me. “Then you must be pretty happy with her.”

“I’m not… happy _with_ her. We’re not… we’re not in love or anything.”

“But you… you will be. Since you’re married.”

“Nah. We’ve agreed not to.”

“You’ve _agreed_?”

“Yes. Prepare your lie detecting powers, ‘cause it’s the only way you’re going to believe this-”

I sit up, crossing my arms, amused.

Monty’s raised his hands, leaning in as if he’s speaking in confidence. “We’ve been married for three years, but we haven’t even slept together.”

I stare at him, baffled. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” he protests, laughing. “You know I’m not.”

I scrutinize him for a moment, but there’s not a lie to the words. I huff. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s part of our agreement.”

“Your _agreement._ ”

“Yes. And get this.” He’s smirking - and by God, have I missed those dimples. “She’s seeing someone.”

“ _What?_ ”

He nods enthusiastically, grinning broadly. “You see, Jeanne and I have something in common. She also likes both men and women.”

I gape at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Am not! And Jeanne’s very much in love with one of the maids. I help them get time together sometimes.”

My jaw drops. I’m too dumbfounded to speak, though I notice the corners of my mouth tugging up. I smile incredulously - I can’t help it. “Monty,” I say slowly. “Are you _helping_ your wife _cheat on you?_ ”

He’s looking very pleased with himself. “Absolutely I am.”

I scoff, and the sound turns into a laugh. I’m not sure why, but with all of us likely dying in less than an hour - this is somehow the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard. “You’re mad.”

“Why? We both like it this way.” Then he turns serious, whispering: “But it’s a secret, obviously. Don’t tell people. Especially not-” He shudders.

 _We’re going to die here, anyway_ , I don’t say. I nod. I take some time to process the information. “So,” I say, in a brave attempt at lightness, “does she help you sneak out to see people sometimes, too?”

Monty’s smile wavers. He swallows. “I… haven’t been seeing anyone.”

“Lately?”

“Since you left.”

That shuts me up. My heart has started beating fast, I notice. His eyes dart aside for a moment, and I’m almost certain I’m imagining that he’s blushing.

“I wish I could’ve been better,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it. “I wish I could’ve been better for you.”

My heart suddenly feels very heavy. “I wish I’d given you another chance to be.”

On the monitor showing the study, Johanna has stopped crying. Sim and Felicity are talking to her - eagerly, but hushed, and they keep eyeing the Robles siblings across the room. Johanna’s nodding, and she’s looking determined.

“I’m sorry I freaked out earlier,” I say.

He shrugs. “It’s all right. I don’t think I’d have reacted any better were our situations reversed.”

“So… what’s it like?” I smile. “Life as an Earl?”

He sighs dramatically. “ _Awful._ Boring. Terrible. Annoying. Too much… _paperwork_ and dull parties and having to be polite to rude people.”

“You being polite? That sounds fake.”

“Oh, hush.” He shoves me, and I laugh. “If there’s one reason I’m glad I stayed, is that I can keep all of it off Adrian’s shoulders.”

“...Adrian…?” _Oh, right._ “The Goblin.”

He chuckles. “I still call him that, you know. He hates it.”

“You’re not being too hard on him, are you?”

“Of course I am! He’s my baby brother. I have to.” Though he’s lying and he knows it. There’s a fond smile on his lips. “Ah, he’s really turning out all right. Even though he’s a little… panicky by nature. Father really gives him a hard time about it, though. Even though he can’t help it, you know? It’s stupid.”

I give him a pitying smile. “But he still has you.”

“Whatever that’s worth.”

I frown. I take his hands in mine. He flinches a little bit at the touch, but doesn’t pull away. “Hey,” I say softly. “That’s worth a lot.”

He looks like he’s about to cry. “It’s not. It’s really, really not.”

And it breaks my heart to see him like this. Distance and time have not changed that. So I stand up - as much as this tiny space allows it - and throw my arms around him. He chokes on a sob, freezing up in my hold, before melting into me, his forehead resting against my shoulder, my chin resting on top of his head.

The same as always.

“How can you say that?” He’s really crying now. “How can you still say things like that when-when I left you when you needed me?”

I hold him at a distance, his face a few inches from mine. I gently wipe the tears of his cheeks. “I left you,” I say quietly.

“You didn’t have a choice! You were going to be put away if you’d have stayed. I was just… so _stupid_ … I’ve been so terrible to you all our lives and- Why do you put up with me? Why have you ever put up with me?”

“Because I love you.”

The words hang like snowflakes between us: beautiful, pure, but frighteningly fragile. It’s not the first time I’ve told him this. The last time he’d reciprocated, and I’d been happier than I’d ever been. I’d been so drunk on love and happiness and… well, alcohol, that I’d recklessly asked him to run with me. And he’d said no.

“I love you,” I repeat, very carefully. These feel like the most important words I’ll ever say. “Yes, you weren’t always the best company, and yes, I’ve been worried sick over you too many times to be good for one’s heart, but I’ve always loved you. And even though I haven’t… You’re worth holding out for.”

“I was so scared,” he whispers. “When I found out you felt the same way, it… it felt too good to be true. And then you asked me to leave my life behind and… and I didn’t know how we were going to survive, yes, but at the same time… I was so scared of disappointing you. I was so scared of finally being together only to let you down. And then I’d rather- I’d rather-”

His words lapse into sobs. I realize there’s tears streaming down my face, too.

“You’d never let me down,” I say softly.

“I would,” he insists.

“You know what? Maybe you would.”

My bluntness startles him out of his sobbing for a moment. He looks at me, big blue eyes shimmering in the light of the monitors.

“Maybe you would. But that wouldn’t be enough for me to give you up, all right? I never have, and I’m never going to. Even if you crash and burn I’m going to be there to catch you, because I know you’re trying, and... I’m going to crash and burn every now and then too! But that’s all right. Because… Because I think we can figure it out together.”

He looks at me with something in his expression I don’t dare to name.

Then he kisses me.

It feels as the first breath I’ve taken in seven years. Every day I’ve been suffocating a little bit more in the memories of him, in all my guilt and regrets and maybes and what ifs, the thoughts driving new nails into my heart every time. But right now, it all disappears. It’s as good as I remember from our first kiss, except _so much better_ , because when we first kissed we were drunk and dazed and desperate to avoid facing our futures. It’d been frenzied, enthusiastic and confusing, and in the end, only painful. It was as if even then we’d known it was a goodbye - wonderful but bittersweet like a dream that gets vaguer every time you try to remember it. This kiss feels like a new beginning - everything I knew and didn’t know I’d missed about him, an embrace I’ve needed for a lifetime, remembering what makes life worth living. And it feels so perfectly natural. As if Monty and I were always meant to be together. Maybe we are.

Maybe we could be.

After the most amazing years-or-minutes of my life, Monty pulls back. “Percy,” he says, out of breath, tears still on his face.

I almost follow him back, wanting to keep my mouth on his until we can’t breathe on our own anymore. But I control myself. “Yeah?”

“We need to stop kissing.”

My heart sinks. All the worst possible options go through my head. _He’s seen what he saw last time - a reason why we can’t be together._ We’re stuck in a fairy tale, the two of us - every time we kiss, it breaks the spell between us.

I try to steady my voice. “Why’s that?”

Monty brushes a lock of hair out of my face. He’s smiling, and the sight alone is enough to make me forget my own damn name. “Because you need to solve the case,” he says in the most gentle voice. “You need to make sure we don’t die so that after tonight, I can run away with you.”

I’m nodding before his words process. “Yes,” I say, still breathless. “Yes, of course.” I blink, trying to remember what on Earth I was doing here in the first place. “The case. I need to solve it.”

“Can I help?”

On instinct, my hand goes to my inside pocket, but the familiar weight is not there. “My notebook,” I say. “I left it in the study.”

“I’ll go fetch it.” Monty’s already moving away, pushing open the door. I grab his wrist, and he turns, question in his eyes.

“Just…” I search for words. I huff with a smile. “Don’t take too long, okay?”

He grins, eyes shining with so much joy, and by God could I write volumes of poems dedicated to his smile and his dimples and how adorable he looks with his cheeks ever so slightly tinted pink. I think he’s about to leave, but he hesitates. Then he quickly leans in and presses a kiss on my lips. With one final fond smile, he leaves.

And I’m left feeling lighter than I have in my entire life.

I sink back into the chair, touching my fingertips to my lips. I’m dazed, everything around me gone vague and blurry and irrelevant. I can still feel him - his weight against me, his hands in my hair, his breath brushing against my skin. The thought alone makes me feel as though I’m about to faint. I’m still staring at the half-opened door, not quite able to take my eyes off where he vanished from my sight.

It’s insane. The entire night, I’ve been carrying this weight with me, growing heavier and heavier until it was the whole damn Earth, crushing me beneath it like as I am unwillingly cast into Atlas’ role. I thought it was the murder, and the mystery of the Heart I am to solve. Right now, I’m feeling a little stupid. It’s never been about that.

I can solve the case. I can get us out of here. 

_So that after tonight, I can run away with you._

A persistent voice whispers from a dark corner of my mind: _he doesn’t mean it. He’s going to change his mind._ It’s the same voice that’s fed me all the long, painful explanations about why I shouldn’t have left in the first place. Telling me that whatever bad happened to Monty, it was in a way my fault. Blaming me for not being brave enough to face it. To deal with it. To help him.

But not tonight.

 _Maybe he will change his mind_ , I think. _Maybe he’ll get scared and maybe he doesn’t want to leave his life behind. But whatever he decides, I’m not leaving him again. I’m going to stick by him, whether he likes it or not._

I know it’s not that simple. It never has been simple between us. But I think we’re both brave and stupid enough to try anyway.

I’ve been sitting there, frozen in blissful oblivion, for some time, when suddenly the door bursts open. I sit up, already smiling, instantly wanting to take Monty in my arms again-

-but I’m instead met with the wrong Montague.

In this situation, that is.

“Percy,” Felicity says. She looks out of breath, pale and terrified, and for some reason that doesn’t tip me off the way it should. The way it should make me realize something is very, very wrong. “You need to come with me _right now_.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She glances over her shoulder, looking more scared than I’ve ever seen her. “It’s the person who wrote the letters. Who planted the bomb. Who’s after the Heart.”

Dread begins to fill me up, rising like the tide.

She bites her lip. “He’s holding Monty hostage.”


	4. The Heart

I follow Felicity through the hallways, feeling like I’m about to throw up. I’ve bombarded her with questions, but every time, she just shakes her head and drags me further along. I expect her to stop by the study, for some reason - but she doesn’t, and when we pass by, I see that it’s empty. _Where is everyone? How did I miss this on the security cameras?_

Instead she guides me down the stairs and back to where this whole night started - the lounge. In the doorway, she slows down, before carefully stepping inside, letting me follow her. Everyone’s here - crowding against the walls, looking terrified, defiant, or both. Monty’s in the middle of the room. When he sees me, a mixture of relief and terror passes across his features. Someone’s standing behind him, gripping his arm and pointing a bloody great gun to his head.

“Mr Newton,” the man says. “You made it.”

He turns to face me.

It’s the _goddamned Duke of Bourbon_.

My jaw drops to the floor. I actually stumble for a second, gripping the door behind me.

_No way._

_No way._

I turn to Felicity. “I thought you said he was _dead_?”

“He was!” she insists, though she seems less sure, staring at him. “I’m absolutely positive. And Platt also confirmed he had no heartbeat!”

She gestures across the room, to Platt, who I hadn’t even spotted yet, but he seems to scared to even respond.

I turn to the Duke. “You’re dead,” is all I can manage.

“He definitely was,” Monty says, voice at least an octave higher than normal, “but now he’s either not or a ghost or a zombie or something like that and whether or not he’s alive seems a bit irrelevant to the fact that he has a _gun to my head_.”

The Duke is watching me with a smile. “Well, well, well. Time’s up.”

I glance at the clock. It’s quarter to three. “Technically we still had fifteen minutes.”

Monty gives me a look that is basically a very panicked _now is not the time for technicalities_ , but the Duke just laughs. “Oh, the time bomb? I’m afraid that was just a piece of fiction. Extra motivation, you see.”

My heart is pounding. I’ve been in hostage situations before, and then I’ve kept my calm admirably. Though never before it’s involved the love of my life having a barrel pressed to his temple.

I take a deep breath. _Keep him talking._ “So,” I say. “How’d you do it?”

He considers me with a smirk, then shrugs. “Lazarus Potion. Medicinal uses put aside, it is ideal for when you want to appear dead for about an hour. Add a little foam at the mouth, and…”

_Lazarus Potion._ I curse myself for not even considering such an option. Did we actually leave the body alone for the rest of the night as soon as we were done with the crime scene?

“All right, that was clever, I’ll give you that. And I assume you wrote the letters, too?”

He nods, looking so damn arrogant about it that I want to rip the gun from his hands and club him against the skull with it.

I scoff. “To what end? The Heart? What do you want with it, anyway?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“He wants to regain his title in France. His _actual_ title,” Felicity says, and we all turn to her. She’s looking rather angry. “He’s not an actual Duke. He didn’t flee the Continent because of the Pixie Plague. His family was kicked out for treachery against the Crown. I bet he’s just trying to win their favor back.”

I’m still trying to decide whether I’m thankful to Felicity for stalling him or whether I’m upset with her for possibly making him angry, but the Duke just chuckles dryly. “Well reasoned, Miss Montague.”

“Doctor.”

“It hardly matters if any of you know at this point.” He makes a careless gesture with the hand he’s holding the gun with, and Monty flinches. I refrain from darting forward. “Since it is rather unlikely that you all will leave this place alive.”

“I thought the bomb was fake,” Sim says.

In response, Bourbon cocks his gun.

“All right, you’re some diabolical genius,” I say quickly, putting up both hands. “But I can’t help you. I don’t know where the Heart is.”

“I’m sure you can figure it out,” Bourbon says. “I’ve given you all the pieces, haven’t I?”

It all clicks into place.

“That’s why everyone here tonight has some connection to the Heart,” I realize. “You’ve arranged it.”

Bourbon’s watching me with the smugness of an evil mastermind who’s ten steps ahead of everyone else. _Goddamn, he is._ Then I frown. “Why Monty? Monty isn’t involved- are you?”

Monty’s already shaking his head, in as far as he dares, but the Duke just chuckles. “As I said, the odds of you all surviving this night are slim. And if Mr Montague here were to be caught in the crossfire… I wouldn’t weep.”

“What did Monty ever do to you?” I ask, getting angry.

Monty’s looking at me, desperate. “A lot okay I did a lot!” he rambles. “Let’s not get into it!”

“Also, one can’t have quite enough leverage on the detective who’s going to solve the case,” the Duke says slowly.

I grit my teeth. “And that’s why I’m here.”

“One of Scotland Yard’s most promising, are you not? Inside sources even tell me you’ve got an extraordinary knack for…” He pauses. Watches for my reaction. “...sniffing out lies.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I haven’t been able to solve it yet. And I have no reason to lie to you about that.”

“I can give you one more piece of the puzzle,” Bourbon says. “After it ended up in Mrs Platt’s possession, I had it stolen from her.”

Johanna makes a distressed sound.

“But.” God, he’s so full of it. “Then someone stole it from me. And since I believe the only people who know about the Heart’s existence are gathered in this room, it must be one of them. The exception perhaps being the Crown and Cleaver, but I’m sure _they_ can count as a stand-in.” He nods at Sim and Felicity. “So. This is everyone’s _last chance_ at freely telling me where the Heart is. Now.”

The room is perfectly silent for at least a full minute. We exchange glances, trying to see who is going to crack.

No one does.

The Duke sighs dramatically. “Very well. You will all take turns in saying you don’t know about the Heart’s whereabouts. Mr Newton will tell me who’s lying.”

I almost bare my teeth at him.

“Miss Aldajah. Why don’t you go first?”

“I don’t know where the Heart is,” Sim says, strained.

Bourbon looks at me, and I nod. “She doesn’t.”

“Very well. Mister Platt?”

We go around the room. Platt, Johanna, Felicity, Helena, Dante. None of them lie.

“I also don’t know where it is, for the record,” Monty squeaks, and the Duke presses the barrel further against his head. Monty’s really craning his neck now. “I didn’t ask you anything,” Bourbon hisses. Then his eyes land on me. “If you claim none of them are lying, then it must be you, Mr Newton.”

“I’m not. I swear. I wouldn’t risk…” My eyes meet Monty’s. “It’s not bloody worth it.”

“Someone here has to know!” Bourbon snaps. “It’s the only possibility!”

He definitely believes it himself. He’s getting more out of control with rage, and I’m terrified of what he’s going to do. He then takes a deep breath. “Well then. Mr Newton, you are going to tell me where the Heart is. You have thirty seconds. Then I blow Mr Montague’s head off.”

A gasp goes through the room, and I feel as though I’m going to faint. “No, wait-”

“Twenty-five.”

“Please,” I beg, though at the same time I’m thinking hard - I have no choice. “When was the Heart stolen from you?” I ask.

“Three weeks ago. Twenty.”

_Three weeks ago._ What happened three weeks ago? I don’t know, I have no idea what’s going on, I’m going to fail and Monty’s going to die and I-

“Fifteen.”

_Only three weeks ago I was at another party here. Feels like yesterday he was mocking me for everyone to hear._

I freeze.

“Ten.”

_I took a little revenge, is all._

“Five. Last chance. Who has the Heart?”

“Monty,” I say.

Bourbon stops counting, perplexed. Then he frowns. “ _What?_ ”

Monty’s looking panicked. “I don’t! I just said that I don’t and you know I wasn’t lying!”

I shake my head, slowly. “No, Monty - you _are_ convinced you don’t have it, but- You mentioned you were at a party here, three weeks ago.”

“How is that relevant?” His voice is still pitched.

It’s all folding out in my head, one obvious piece after another. “You told me the Duke did something to piss you off and you took a little vengeance.”

“Wow, thanks, Perce, I told you that in confidence and definitely not so you could share it with the person I got vengeance against and who is currently holding _a gun to my head-_ ”

“No. Monty.” I take a deep breath. “What, _exactly_ , did you do?”

Monty shrugs violently, the motion mostly limited by the Duke still holding him. “Nothing big! I just nicked some stupid trinket box!”

The room falls quiet.

Next to me, Felicity scoffs, then rolls her eyes. “Monty. Good _Lord._ The Heart was in the box.”

Monty gapes at her. “ _Why didn’t anyone tell me that?_ ”

“We mentioned it in the study,” Felicity says, peeved. “If you’d been paying attention-”

“Enough!” Bourbon barks. “The box. _Now!_ ”

Monty fumbles for his pockets. His hand disappears into one, and remerges clutched around something. He holds it up, opening his hand, and there, at long last, stands that cursed little box.

Or, I believe it is, based on the hungry look Bourbon gives it.

It’s a bit bigger than Monty’s palm, about half as high as it is wide, made out of ebony wood and rather delicately decorated. Bourbon snatches it and tosses it to me. I only barely catch it.

“Open it,” he tells me.

It’s much heavier than I’d have expected it to be, and, eerily, I feel a vague throbbing emulating from it. I turn it right side up, and find a number of opal dials. I try to pull open the lid, but it resists.

“It’s locked,” I say.

“Then smash it.”

“No!” Felicity interrupts. “It’s a Baseggio puzzle box, it’s lined with acid. If it’s destroyed instead of unlocked, it dissolves its contents.”

Bourbon turns to her. “Then what is the code?”

“If we’d known, we’d have opened the box months ago,” Felicity snarls.

I’m still running my fingers along the rotary dials. Twenty-six letters. Seven dials.

Bourbon sighs, losing his patience. “Very well. It worked last time. Someone open the box or I start shooting people.”

Felicity snatches the box from my hands. I’m thankful - I’m already trembling from how close it got to Monty being shot, I can’t formulate a decent thought in my head. Felicity spins the dials. Everyone watches her as they click.

Then, suddenly, the lid pops open.

“What was the code?” Sim asks.

Felicity seems as surprised that it worked as everyone else. When she looks up, it’s not at Sim. It’s at Johanna.

“Johanna,” she simply says.

“Hand it over,” Bourbon says. He lets Monty go and extends his free hand to her. She places the box in his palm, and he quickly pulls back, as if he’s afraid she’s going to change her mind. With the hand he’s holding the gun with, he pushes Monty away. Monty stumbles in my general direction, and I catch him before he can sink through his knees.

We’re all watching the Duke. Almost in a trance, he very careful reaches into the box and lifts out the object inside, displaying it on his palm.

The box clatters on the floor.

For a moment I’m convinced he’s holding an actual human heart - it’s the right color and only a little smaller than it should be. Then I start to notice how unnaturally it reflects the light; more like a gemstone than organic matter. It’s got golden details poking out, as if it wasn’t properly carved from a rock, and when I look closer, I see grooves in both sides. It looks as though two hands held it for so long their imprints are embedded.

It emits a soft light, and an equally soft but horrifying thumping sound.

There’s a _click_.

“Destroy it.”

We all turn, Bourbon probably in the most dramatic fashion. He faces Helena, who’s standing behind him, gun in her hands and aimed at him. Monty clutches the lapels of my coat.

“Condesa?” Bourbon asks.

“You heard me. Destroy it.” Her gaze is hard and her grip on the weapon is steady, but a tremor in her voice betrays her.

“We stick to the plan,” Bourbon says, as if he hasn’t properly realized yet what’s going on.

_The plan._ The Robles siblings were his accomplices in all of this. Of course.

“I don’t _care_ ,” Helena says. “You are going to destroy that Heart right now. It’s caused far too much damage.”

Bourbon’s staring at her, back to us. He’s still got the Heart raised at the height of his shoulder, as if it’s a skull and he’s about to start reciting Shakespeare, but he has lowered his gun. It’s hanging loosely in his hand at his side.

My heart skips a beat.

_I’m not going to get another opportunity like this._

“Is that why you agreed to help?” Bourbon says.

I carefully help Monty stand on his own feet again. He looks at me in question. I put a finger to my lips. His eyes widen.

“How smart. Destroy it or I swear I’ll shoot you.”

I’m slowly moving in closer, almost praying not to make a sound, praying for no one to give me away, praying he won’t turn. I’m barely two feet behind him now. I stretch my arm, reaching for the gun-

He turns, eyes meeting mine.

I hear a shot. My hands are still hovering in the air, as I’m frozen in the motion of trying to grab his weapon, but he’s raised it again. We’re still looking each other in the eye. He seems surprised. Very distantly, I hear gasping. A voice crying my name. Monty’s voice, perhaps.

Suddenly, the world spins, and I realize my legs are giving out from under me. I face the ceiling, and brace myself for the smack of hitting the ground - it’s all I can do. Two arms wrap themselves around me from behind, and together, we sink to the floor.

Above me, I see Monty’s horrified face.

Reality crashes back in. Time regains its regular speed, and the sound returns.

“Stay back!” I hear Bourbon yell. When I lift my head with great effort, I see he’s aimed his gun at Felicity, who barely stops in her tracks, running toward me. “All of you, stay back!”

“You _shot him!_ ” Felicity cries at him, half-hysterical. “He needs help or he’s going to _die!”_

“What part of ‘the odds of you all surviving tonight are slim’ was not clear?”

Only now I notice Monty’s been talking to me non-stop. “Oh my God Percy oh my God are you okay please don’t die what can I do please don’t die please don’t-”

“Stop the bleeding!” Felicity shouts at him. “Apply pressure!”

Though judging by the tone of her voice, it’s not looking good.

I’m dazed. Things are happening around me and I’m barely a part of it, a spectator squinting into the sun. I feel Monty’s hands on my chest. He’s shaking, and I realize he’s sobbing. When he briefly raises one hand to his face to wipe away tears, he leaves behind a red stain on his cheek.

Bourbon turns back to Helena, facing her. “You were saying, Condesa?”

Slowly, without looking at him, he points his weapon at Dante.

Dante squeaks.

After a long, tense moment, Helena lowers her gun.

“Put it down on the floor and shove it away. Slowly,” he orders.

She complies, not once breaking eye contact. Her gaze is seething rage.

“Anyone else want to try something funny?”

Monty’s still pressing down on my chest, sobbing, talking to me, though I’m not hearing much of it. He looks so scared and sad. I want to reach out and smoothe the crease of his brow, wipe away his tears, tell him everything is going to be all right. Tell him to run away from home and stop drinking and not be so hard on himself all the time.

Tell him that I love him.

“M-Monty,” I manage.

“Don’t try to talk, Percy, darling, save your strength,” he says breathlessly. “We’ll get you to a doctor and they’re going to fix you right up and everything is going to be fine. I promise. Just hang in there, all right? Just-”

“I sh-should’ve known you… were the one to steal the Heart.”

Monty’s looking at me, eyes full of tears. He’s not pressing as hard anymore. Maybe he’s giving up. But that’s all right. There’s not much hope left, anyway.

“Why’s that, darling?” he whispers.

“Be-cause…” Why is breathing so painful? “Because… you stole m-my heart, too.”

I hope he’ll laugh. I hope to see his smile and his dimples one last time, to see him being happy as the final thing I’ll see in this world. But he looks earnest, eyes suddenly lost in the distance.

“The Heart,” he says.

“Now,” the Duke resumes loudly. “It was a pleasure doing business with you all. I certainly had a lovely evening. Now, say good-”

Monty has gently put me down on the floor, and now he _leaps_ at the Duke. He snatches the Heart from his hand and darts for me, falling down on his knees beside me, and placing it in my hand.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Bourbon is towering over us. He grabs Monty’s shoulder and tries to pull him aside.

“No!” Monty cries. “He needs it!”

The Duke shoves Monty aside and takes the Heart from my palm. Monty comes at him again, grabbing his hand, but Bourbon refuses to let go. There’s a struggle, during which Monty tries to put the Heart back in my hand and the Duke tries to pull it away. Right when I feel the cold stone against my skin, there’s another shot.

The blast of it throws Monty back. He lands on his side, three feet beside me, clutching one side of his head and whimpering.

The room returns to silence. I’m looking at Monty, and I want to reach out, to help - but my vision is darkening around the edges. All I can do is meet his eyes, watch his face contort in pain.

Then he looks a bit past me, eyes widening. I follow his gaze.

In my hand, I’m still holding the Heart - and the Duke is, too. He looks as surprised to see it as I am. He tries to pull away, but it’s stuck to his skin - and to mine.

“Who held it first?” Felicity asks, looking between us.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m slipping away, falling weightlessly into the darkness, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

“Well, I’m not getting many years from _that_ ,” Bourbon says dryly. He’s still trying to shake off the Heart, but it’s to no avail. “What a waste of-” He cuts off abruptly. Frowns. Takes a sharp breath as if he’s about to say something else, but doesn’t. He looks down. Slowly raises a hand to his chest. Presses it there. Lifts it into his view.

He gasps.

At the height of his heart, a red spot has started blooming through his shirt. At first it’s the size of a bullet, then it spreads and stains, running down in thin lines, slowly, then rapidly. The white of the fabric tints as his skin pales. He stumbles on his feet for a moment, then falls down on one knee, then the other. In his final moment, he looks at me, eyes bulging out, mouth half opened in disbelief.

Then he collapses.

The dust settles. Everyone is frozen in the moment, and it feels as if time itself has stopped. No one even dares to breathe.

Then, at long last, the Heart slips from my hand. It hits the floor with a _clank!_.

Almost instantly, Felicity runs to my side. “How are you feeling?”

I push myself up on my elbows. How _am_ I feeling? My vision has cleared, and I’m breathing normal again. “I’m fine,” I say, dumbstruck. “I think I’m fine.”

“Are you still injured?”

I undo a few buttons on my shirt, then look down, hand going to the spot over my heart that’s still drenched in blood. I wipe some of it aside.

“The wound’s gone,” Felicity says, gaping. “It’s just gone.”

“That’s really great,” a drowsy voice from beside us comes, and we both start. “Mine isn’t, so…”

“Monty!”

We both hurry to his side. He’s still clamping one ear, and his eyes are out of focus.

“Hello, darling,” he mutters, as I take him in my arms.

Felicity pries his hand away from his head, then gasps and pushes it back. “Okay, we’re going to need to keep pressure on that,” she says, back straightening and trying to keep her voice level. I can see she’s blinking away some tears.

I take Monty’s hand, twining his fingers with mine and pressing it to the wound. I barely even notice the blood - we’re both already drenched in it. Felicity has turned to the others present. “Don’t just _stand there_. Call an ambulance! Is there a first aid kit in this house?”

I’ve stopped listening. All I see is Monty, looking up at me, trying to smile but a wince turns it more into a grimace. I brush a strand of hair out of his face. A few drops of water fall onto his cheek, and I realize that I’m crying.

“Hang in there, okay?” I try to smile, but I’m so terrified of losing him - _what if he’s going to die right here, in my arms? Why didn’t I act faster? Why didn’t I-_ “I still need you.”

“Nah,” Monty mumbles. His eyes are starting to slide shut, his blinking slowing down. “You’ll be fine with-out me… You’ve always been f-”

“Of course not!” I say, horrified. “You think I’ve been fine these past few years? I’ve been going mad with missing you, you complete idiot. I can’t live without you, so you’re not going to _die_ , all right? You’re going to live so we can make up for those stupid years we lost being angry at each other for no good reason. You’re going to live and we’re going to get a nice place together and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, and we’re going to be upset with each other sometimes and we’re going to fight but that’s all right because we’re always going to make up again. And we’re going to be so happy that we almost forget there were days when we weren’t.” I’m rambling, but I don’t care. I feel like it’s the only thing I can do, grasping at straws, quite literally begging him to stay alive. “You and me, being stupid and tough together, remember? That’s our future. And I can’t do that alone.” My voice breaks on the final word, and a sob escapes me. Monty’s staring up at me, movements getting slighter. “You’re going to pull through, you hear me? Because… Because I _do_ need you. Because I love you, and I need you more than anything in the world.”

He nods, vaguely, eyes slipping away from me.

“You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

His eyes are closed. For a moment I think the worst has happened, but then his mouth pulls into a small smile. “I believe you,” he whispers.

\---

“I’m just saying,” he says, chewing thoughtfully, “it was a pretty crazy night, and we were all going to die, but in the end, I was basically the hero of the day. Wasn’t I? I saved your life.”

“Did you?” I ask mildly, and he gives me a shove.

Monty gives me a haughty look as he puts aside the serving tray. “Absolutely I did. Without that Heart, you’d be dead now. So a little gratitude should be in place.”

I smile at him. “Thank you, Monty. What ever would I do without you?”

“That’s more like it.”

I’m sitting on a chair beside him, my head resting on my arms, folded together on the side of his bed. The hospital is quiet at this hour. The occasional footsteps pass by in the hallway, accompanied by whispering, and outside, there’s a low hum of the morning traffic.

“I mean, you were also pretty heroic. Which was very attractive but I will still need you to _refrain_ from that in the future.” He gives me a stern look, index finger pointing at me.

“Excellent. From now on, I shall ask every criminal that threatens me to calmly hand themselves in, because my-” _oh, good Lord, what_ are _we even to each other now?_ I decide to go with the safest option, “-best friend has kindly requested me to not put myself in danger anymore.”

He nods. “Exactly.” But then he looks me in the eye, open and sincere. “I’m serious, though. I really thought I was going to lose you.”

“You’re one to talk.”

He chuckles weakly. “Let’s just… Let’s just both agree to stay away from firearms.”

“Deal.” I sit up, leaning back in my chair. I yawn. I still haven’t caught up yet on the sleep I lost that fateful night at Mirror Manor and during the frenzied days after. In between the official investigation of the scene and fearing the love of my life was going to die, I’d been either too busy or too tense to do anything more than doze a few hours. It’s been a week, and it’s still hard to believe we’ve all made it out alive and well. Or, mostly well.

“How’s your ear?” I ask.

“You mean my lack thereof?” He gestures vaguely to the right side of his head. “Ah, no news. At this point it’s safe to say I won’t be hearing anything on this side again any time soon.”

He’s putting up a brave face, but it doesn’t take any lie detection abilities to tell he’s distraught. I take his hand and squeeze it. He gives me a grateful smile.

“Thank God I’m already married,” he says lightly. “With the scars I’m getting out of this, it’d be ridiculously difficult to find anyone still interested.”

I bring our linked hands to my lips and press a soft kiss to his knuckles. “I could think of at least one more person.”

The look he gives me feels like the sun.

There’s a knock at the door, and we both start.

“Monty? The nurse said I could come in.”

In the doorway, a woman stands - all fine features and pale skin and blonde hair falling around her shoulders. She’s beautiful, anyone can see that; though right now she’s looking a little bit disheveled, as if she, too, hasn’t been sleeping well lately. Clinging to her arm is a young, dark-haired boy, who’s looking at us with big eyes. I look back to Monty. He’s smiling.

“Of course, my darling. Percy, meet Jeanne and Adrian, Jeanne, Adrian - this is Percy.”

I stand up, and Jeanne offers me a smile and a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

It’s a standard formality, but it’s so _true_ , and for some odd reason, it makes my heart swell. “Likewise.”

Adrian is still half-hiding behind her, watching me. I kneel down and offer him a hand as well. “Adrian, right? You probably don’t remember me. I haven’t seen you since you were a baby.”

“Monty always talks about how much he misses you,” Adrian says, to my and his own surprise. He claps a hand for his mouth, but when I smile, he grins back.

“Hey!” Monty protests. “I do _not_.”

Adrian runs around the bed, propping up at his side. “Yes, you do.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I thought I was a goblin.”

“You’re both. Now get on my other side, I can’t hear a thing.”

Adrian complies, going around and sitting down on the edge of the bed. I’ve stood up, and offer Jeanne my chair.

“How are you feeling?” she asks as she sits down.

Monty shrugs. “I’m all right. Takes more than that to take me down.”

In spite of his light tone, Jeanne’s looking concerned, though she tries to conceal it. “You lost an ear, darling.”

“But I’ve still got one left, don’t I?”

The combination of fondness and exasperation in her eyes is all too familiar. If I’d still had any doubts she was all right - they’d be gone by now.

“What about you?” I realize she’s speaking to me now. “From what I’ve heard, that must’ve been quite the night.”

“Eh.” I shrug, hands in my pockets. “I’m used to something.”

“He’s just showing off,” Monty confidently says. “He was crying over me.”

I give him a sour glance, and he replies with a wink. Then a grimace, hand rising to his bandages. He stops half way, right before I can scold him for trying to scratch his burns.

“Did you actually get shot?” Adrian asks me.

Monty gives him a friendly shove. “I was shot, too, you know.”

Adrian laughs and bats him away. “But he was shot in the _chest_. It’s more spectacular!”

“I’ll have you know that I am plenty spectacular.”

He’s ignored. “So is it true?” Jeanne asks. “Monty said something about the Heart transfering _years_. Are you going to live longer, now? Longer than most.”

“I definitely hope not.” And I really, _really_ don’t. Extra years come at the cost of outliving those I love. Monty gives me a small smile. I continue: “And Felicity doesn’t think so. Her theory is…” I frown to remember it correctly. She’d used quite a number of scientific terms that mean absolutely nothing to me. “She thinks that because I was dying, the Heart used all the energy that would normally have been extra years to keep me alive. So while there’s no way to know for sure anytime soon… it’s likely that saving my life that night was the Heart’s only effect on me.”

Monty nods. “Where is the Heart now, anyway?”

“The police confiscated it. It’s evidence.” Then the corners of my mouth tug up. “Though I heard a rumor that as soon as the case is closed, it might get stolen by a certain organization taking care of magical things.”

“Stolen?” Adrian asks, looking between us, but we don’t elaborate. Jeanne seems to understand, though. I can imagine Monty told her a bit more than he told Adrian.

“How is Felicity, actually?” she asks. “And the others? How are they holding up?”

“They’re… mostly all right,” I say. “Johanna kicked out Platt, actually.”

Monty nods appreciatively. “Did she? Good for her.”

“How so?” Jeanne asks.

“Well, they’re still legally married, but she threatened to have him arrested for murder if she ever saw him again, so… She’s keeping most of his possessions, though. And from what I’ve gathered, Felicity and Sim have recruited her.”

Adrian frowns. “Recruited?”

Monty and I trade a knowing look.

“Oh, nothing.”

The conversation dies out for a moment. We all half-listen in on a conversation between two nurses passing by in the hallway.

I gather my courage. “She, uh…” I press my lips together, hand going through my hair. “She offered me a place to stay, actually.”

The three of them look at me.

“Since she’s, well, she’s going to be away a bit more with her new… job. So it’d be empty. And I _have_ been living in a guest bedroom for the past seven years.” I chuckle.

I’ve already discussed this with Boswell, as soon as I got the invitation. I know he and his wife never minded having me over - but there’s only so much hospitality one can in good conscious accept. Not to mention that while I love them both dearly, I wouldn’t mind having a place of my own - sort of my own. It’d still belong to Johanna, technically, but it would do. More than that; it’d be perfect.

Well, almost perfect. One small addition would improve it immensely.

Monty’s hesitating, biting his lip. He pulls in a sharp breath. “How… _big_ is this house, actually?”

My heart makes a reckless vault. “Oh, I think it’s pretty big.”

Monty looks out of the window, lost in thought for a moment. Hope is starting to well up inside of me, and I try to shove it down - I don’t want to be disappointed again, let down in my own ridiculous desires.

We haven’t spoken about it since our kiss in the surveillance room. Well, technically I’d mentioned it while I believed Monty was dying, but I’d been rambling in panic, and while I do mean everything I said - it’s still a gamble. My heart on the table, out in the open, all my secrets laid bare. A leap of faith.

The week has been too frenzied to even properly think about it. With Monty almost dying (“He did not almost die,” Felicity says with an eye roll, every time I mention that) and the official investigation, we’ve all been properly preoccupied. And when I did visit Monty, we were mostly quietly enjoying each other’s company, feeling so ridiculously lucky to be alive.

_Maybe he changed his mind. We all thought we were going to die that night. You say and do stupid things when you think you’re about die._

I take a steadying breath. There’s no point to these kind of anxieties. I’ve no control in the matter right now. He knows how I feel. I’ve made my offer.

It’s up to him if he’ll take it or not.

“How do you two like it at home?” Monty suddenly asks. I realize he’s talking to Adrian and Jeanne.

Jeanne frowns. “You know I share your sentiments, Monty. Why do you ask?”

Monty nods. Then, moving a bit too quickly to be good for his current condition, he drags Adrian toward him and puts him in a headlock, ruffling his hair as the kid protests loudly.

“What about you, hm? How would you like a change of scenery?

When Adrian finally calms down from laughing and catches his breath, he looks up at Monty in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Monty doesn’t reply. Instead, he asks Jeanne: “How _has_ my dear old Father been taking the news of my near demise?”

“He says you need to stop acting like a child and come home already,” Jeanne replies dryly.

I scoff. “Really? Monty almost died, and that’s his response?”

I’m… not sure why I’m so surprised. I’ve always known Monty’s father is a piece of garbage. Still, for some reason I’d thought circumstances like these might make him think twice.

Clearly not.

Adrian has gone quiet at the mention of their father. He’s still leaning against Monty, fiddling with his sleeves, eyes downcast. “I’d like a change of scenery,” he suddenly says, very quietly.

Monty pats him on the shoulder. “Well, in that case, we have some work to do.”

“Work?” I prompt him. It’s so easy to guess what he means, but I still don’t want to hope idly. At this point, I don’t think I could survive another fall. But it’s too late - hope is blossoming up inside me, making my stomach vault, my heart fluttering like a butterfly’s wings.

“Well, I need to get out of the hospital first, of course. But when I get home,” he says, with that wicked grin that never fails to make my heart leap, “I’m thinking my lovely wife and I should go on a day trip to London sometime soon. And we should bring… one maid, let’s say? In case we need anything. Oh, and Adrian, of course. It’ll be very educational for him.”

He looks me in the eye. There’s a spark there that I missed so dearly - exasperating and wonderful, and I know I’d jump off the edge of the Earth with him if he’d ask me to. He reaches out his hand, and I don’t even have to think about taking it. We’re magnets, the two of us. No matter how much time or space there is between us - we always end up back together. Two suns in each other’s orbit, unable to pull apart even though it could be dangerous. Dangerous and crazy and against all the odds.

But when we’re looking at each other, I’m prepared to face it all. I’m prepared to fight the entire world if it would prove to be necessary - anything for this beautiful man that I know better than my own reflection, that I love more than life itself.

He's always had my heart, anyway.

He squeezes my hand, and in that moment, I know without a shadow of a doubt that we’re going to be all right.

“And if the four of us,” he continues, “were to, say, mysteriously _disappear_ on such a trip…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand that was it!!! after monty gets out of the hospital, he, adrian, jeanne and her girlfriend elope and move in with percy in johanna's house! they're all quite happy there.
> 
> anyway!!! I ended up working on this fic for a little less than a month, and while it may not be perfect, I'm still very proud of how it turned out! thank y'all for reading & commenting, & extra kudos to the people who had some theories!! they were very fun to read :)
> 
> this was a very fun story to write, and I hope to write some more longer fics in the future :) ! hope you're all having a lovely day <3

**Author's Note:**

> Who killed the Duke of Bourbon? Place your bets now :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Lurks Behind the Looking Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812708) by [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope)




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